


Infected

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-25 04:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: France and England find themselves in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my Co-Writer AsterAndAlyssum on Fanfic!

The moment France awoke, he knew something was terribly wrong.

It felt like a bomb had gone off within his head — his headache was that bad — and his throat, Dieu. He must not have drunken for days. When he was able to force his eyes open, there were only grey skies above. That, and the swarming of flies above him. He groaned, making a few half-hearted attempts at swatting them away. He was in England, he remembered. He came here himself, wrapped in his most comfortable coat, while trying and failing desperately to call Canada, or Germany, or whoever might pick up. There were no trains spanning the channel anymore, only a clot of survivors crowding the terminal in Coquelles, crying and screaming and begging for help. The smell of rot permeated the air around him. He recalled suffocating.

And what happened after? France rasped. He could barely think. There was a ferry, yes? The roar of the sea. He'd made it to England, and then... He had been overrun. Whatever that was left of Dover was a festering, writhing hoard. He had been screaming his throat raw. He'd thrown one of them into the debris, and the other — what of the other? There were too many, he did not know, but it had snarled and snapped his arm. In his last breath, he had screamed for England. France bolted upright. Of course. He had been distracted by his headache, but without it, there was the realisation that his senses were dulled, his legs numb. His hair was hanging limply over his face. Glancing at his broken arm and noticing it had been infested with a wriggling mass of _maggots_ was almost anticlimactic. It would appear (and the realisation was settling into his decaying bones) that France was undeniably dead.

Time meant nothing anymore, so he spent what seemed like days picking out those horrifying, disgusting things from the gash in his arm. There was a strange sort of silence within him, one that belied an oncoming breakdown, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Oh, what now! He was one of the infected! His hair was a disaster, he could not look beautiful if he happened to be a decomposing mess. Non, non, he had to stop. Breaking in hysterics would be very bad. Biting his lip, he forced himself to focus. The gash turned out to be an awful bite wound, as he expected. It was not closing. _Parfait_. And what was even better was the thudding of something large in his direction. Now, this could be anything from a large horde to survivors to military personnel, so he lifted his head, and—

— Behold! A man on a horse, tearing his blade through bone like the knights of old. France was almost impressed, if a bit perplexed. How English of him, really, that he should resort to medieval warfare in the advent of the apocalypse.


	2. Chapter 2

England sighed, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat in the safe-house, flask beside him. His hand was shaking more than he would like to admit and his stomach felt like someone had ringed it out. His head was throbbing from where he had hit it earlier and he was simply trying to find his willpower to get up and go out to see if he could find survivors. It was his duty as a nation to try and keep as many of his citizens alive as he desperately tried to find a cure or way to kill these beings. Persuading himself he could have a long rest afterwards, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled forward, placing his hand against a rotting wooden wall to balance himself. He was in a horrid state, quite frankly. He hated to think what the others would say seeing him like this.

Brushing off his clothes, he pulled on his cloak and then headed out into the yard, "Duke?" he whispered softly, trying to catch the attention of one of the horses. He got only a glare in response, the stallions ears pinned back and stomped his hoof from annoyance. Neither of them liked this situation. England sighed heavily, grabbed the reins and throwing himself up onto the dark dappled bay horse. "it's only for a while, love.." he promised. He wasted no time in leaving, glad that the hoof-deafeners seemed to be doing the trick. He warily looked around, his senses on high alert as he entered the destruction that used to be a port city. He'd been travelling for a while now, lucky to avoid the infected by staying covered. He headed into the ashes of a city now destroyed, heart-aching as he looked among the rubble. He could smell the corpses, setting him on high alert for any of those monstrous beings. So, he was prepared when he saw one, the horrible, deformed body, twisted and thinned, stained a pale green. The trickle of drool down the side. The bloodshot, lifeless eyes and the twist of the jaw. It was enough to make him almost vomit at the creature heading towards him. He didn't hesitate; it was no longer one of his civilians. Brandishing his saber out of the sheath he kept it in, kicking Duke into a tight canter, he felt the blade slice diagonally across the malnourished body, drawing through the bones and flicking the liquid that was supposedly blood into the air before it fell down again. He knew this was barely enough and slashed downwards again, the quick movements in succession of each other as he worked, carving the remains up.

To France, the dashing horseman was too far away to make out more than a silhouette, but he waved, regardless. "Excusez-moi! Monsieur!" His arm refused to move smoothly and his voice was hoarse. France's only hope now was that this man would not take one look at his body and attempt to kill him. Englands head whipped around at the sound of the French accent, feeling something caught in his throat as he saw the body in the pile. Was that..? No, it couldn't be. He jumped off Duke, landing with a thud and sipping the reins through his arms. His pupils dilated as he approached the man warily, cautious that he might be bitten. The bloody mess of an arm, if it still was that, made him gag as he approached, "Fucking shit.." he whispered, voice hoarse and croaked. He started kicking away some of the stones before he undoubtedly noticed the bite. This was no longer a human. He couldn't recognize the nation of France under the matted bloody that now stained his skin. He let out a low growl and kicked the body, hard, to vent out his frustrations. This was a zombie. He'd simply kill it.

The man got off, and France _saw_.. "_Angleterre,_" He breathed, scrambling backwards at his approach. He looked mad. Oh yes, he always looked mad, but this was exceptional. England was alive and unharmed. Another nation was. The world had not ended after all. Despite the silence, a spike of joy that shot through his quiet heart, and he nearly grinned. Then the kick launched him back. He struck a pile of brick and ruin, ribs crunching audibly on impact. No pain. He really _was_ dead, wasn't he? France braced himself against a rusted metal rod, staring into England's burning eyes. His heart sank. Surely he didn't think he was already gone? He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strange, snarling gurgle. Frothing blood, spilling from his lips. Oh dear. This was not good. He coughed, brownish blood dribbling down his shirt. A shudder wracked him. He was _disgusting_. "Stop this," he rasped, at long last. "I'm still—" Another cough. "I am France, you imbecile! Stop!"

Englands eyes widened as he realized - as he heard the voice. His heart fell, then started beating rapidly as he went into fully fledged panic. France. He practically ran to his side, falling down beside him, the bone in his throat tightening so he could barely breathe. He couldn't stop his primal instincts to wrap his arms around the other nation, falling onto his knees as he pulled him close to his chest, not caring about the destroyed state of the other. Another nation was alive. But, why was France in England? Why was he here? He couldn't bring himself to apologize, just bury his head into the nations shoulder. He forgot he was gone, that he could be bitten at any moment. "You've got something on your lips" he murmured quietly, not quite bringing himself to insult him yet. He was still getting through the initial shock. In a way, this was his apology for kicking him. His finger traced the skin on Frances chin, wiping away from of the liquid that had come out when he coughed. All hatred was gone now. He just felt pity. "This is going to hurt," he whispered the warning. His hands trailed down to his arm, mauled and destroyed. He forced himself to stop shaking as he removed one of the white, slithery creatures that France had missed, his face burning with disgust, "Maggot therapy only works if they aren't eating you alive at the same time."

France only stared back, savouring the spark of realisation that overcame England's eyes, the near-graceful dive for his ruined body. He was _alive_. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the beating of his heart as he pressed himself against him. And here he was, thinking that England, too, had fallen. Of course, he should have known he would be stronger than that, his _rosbif_. He didn't dare reply and risk dribbling more blood onto England's shirt. It was mortifying, really. If he should be turned into a monster, he would have rathered something infinitely more graceful, instead of... well... this. He hadn't yet tested how stiff his limbs were, or if he would be reduced to shambling as his tendons degraded, but he didn't want to. He shut his eyes as England trailed his hand down his chin, realising —with a jolt— that he could feel it. Though, his touch felt duller than France remembered. What then, if he soon lost the ability to feel? A shudder ran him through. It intensified as soon as England caught the tail of one of those accursed things. France smiled, wanly, keeping his voice low and his lips still. "Ah, they're eating me, that is for sure. But I don't think I can be considered _alive_ anymore." He sat up straighter, meeting England's gaze with the most forceful look he could muster. "But oui, the other nations! Are... are you alone?" He looked around, and found that aside from his horse, England was. "There was no one I could find on the Continent, and— perhaps they'd come here, that is what I thought." He paused for a moment, carefully suppressing a cough. "...I don't believe you're the only one stubborn enough to survive."

He paused as he took in the words, eyes looking rather hurt at his comment as he let go of the other nation. He stood up and brushed some of the dirt off of his knees. He felt anxiousness rise from the pit of his stomach and his eyes started darting around. He couldn't get himself distracted, as much as he just wanted to be in someones arms while they comforted him. The experience was all too painful. "You.. risked your own life to come here. With no sort of defence, weapon. I could be in Cornwall, yet you still risked it. You're an absolute idiot, fucks sake. And don't give me that look, you're not bloody dead yet because I refuse to let you die to any hand but my own. And I'm officially banned from doing that by our alliance, remember? Now God damn it don't you collapse on me before more of those foul creatures arrive." He was ranting again as he glared at the other nation. He was a real mess. He offered his hand to help him stand, but deep down he doubted it. "We've been beheaded, burnt alive, eaten. You're not dead yet." He sighed and looked down at the ground and rubble, "No. No one else is here. I can't contact anyone either."

He was feeling rather broken at seeing his France like this when he was usually confident and flirtatious. As much as he put him down for it, he was starting to miss him. He wasn't sure how to care for a body. Would bathing hurt? Certainly soap would. He would have to be tender. And what herbs and medicine could he use? He'd have to bring out his angel form, but as much as he was pretending, he could barely stand he was so exhausted. He barely had any life energy left, unable to sleep for a week. It was driving him insane. He would most certainly collapse and France wouldn't be in a condition safe enough to guard the castle.

"You won't," he said, simply. "Be in Cornwall, I mean. They barely consider themselves a part of you. Surely, you won't stake your life there? If I know you well enough — and I _do_ — you won't be there. I don't care if I'm wrong, I trust my heart." It was wiser for him not to comment on the second half of England's rant. It beat with the same sort of aching familiarity their bickering always held, but it only made him want to hang his head and cry. And England's hand was just... there. He could take it. He wanted to, and perhaps he might reach to pull England closer again. But he took one glance at his own near-greenish pallor and felt his mood sour. "I should hope I'll never have to see a mirror again," he mused. It was suddenly very hard to maintain his stare, when he knew England could see just how dreadful he looked. It was a wonder he hadn't immediately commented on it. "I'm not dead, oui, but with the state of my... my everything, I may as well _be!_" France huffed. "_Dieu_, don't you help me up, you're barely standing, yourself. I-I will just!" He stood up, and spent several seconds pinwheeling ungracefully, before finally stabling himself. "Now look. I am fine. We must head off at once, wherever it is we might be heading to."

England growled, "They bloody well do. The Cornish are my territory. O-Or Devon, or further North! Lake district. You're bloody lucky." he crossed his arms as he watched his expression change. He sighed. Of course France didn't want to touch him, he hated him, simply forced to be friendly by bosses. He bit his lip and stayed silent, wondering if that meant France wanted to die and leave him alone. "How _graceful_. I am standing and much stronger than you. We.. need to head back to where I am staying." he headed over to Duke and knelt down, "Come on, you haven't forgotten how to use a leg up."

"Oh, you're staying somewhere? That is good. I'm glad we won't need to travel at night." He sniffed, but it turned into quite a smirk when England got down on his knees. It was worrying him that he did not think his legs capable of going that high, now (was rigor mortis really something he had to consider? Oh dear). "—And non, my memory is in perfect order, _merci_." And so he stood there for an indecent amount of time, smugness intensifying at every passing moment. "But how chivalrous of you, Angleterre. I feel like one of your damsels! Surely, I could offer you a curtsy in return for your graciousness, Sir Arthur?" France performed one with an imaginary skirt, before daintily pulling his leg up to step on England. It worked, to his relief. But then came the problem of actually putting his weight on him. He hesitated, before gripping the poor horse and shoving all of it down at once. Without the benefit of his natural finesse, wherever all of that went, he ended up flopping rather clumsily atop England's horse, and he wasn't even sure if the hard object he accidentally kicked was England's _face._

"We probably will be travelling" he scoffed, "Stop complaining. We both know I don't court women - I just know you're not very flexible, _damsel_. And you most certainly don't have the experience I do with your fancy frog ways. The only muscle you have that works is your tongue in that horrible language of yours." He rolled his eyes at the smug expression on Frances face. He could be absolutely ridiculous sometimes. He didn't let out any noise as he was stepped on, but was rather thinking back to when France did wear dresses and could have done that, with his hair tied back prettily in a ribbon. Too bad he was a git even back then. He watched him get on the saddle, "Oi, don't hurt 'im" he growled, rubbing his face as he hissed, surprised by the impact on his cheek, "You move like a slug" he pointed out, "Shuffle back on the saddle," he ordered before dragging the reins in one hand and jumping up himself, landing neatly in front of him.

He reached down, putting Frances feet in the stirrups. He would do without for now. He checked the girth, glad it was tight enough before pressing his back against Frances front. It was strange to feel human contact again and despite the (somewhat) innocent situation, he could feel his ears turning red with heat. France scooted backwards, feeling quite humiliated indeed. He eyed England's swift ascent atop his horse, holding his own head high, because he would _not_ be insulted by him in this trying time. He stared as his feet were lodged very neatly into the stirrups, and England! His eyes widened. England had backed up against him. Now, he wasn't soft, per se, but he was warm, and whatever feelings he may-or-may-not have held for his dearest rosbif decided to make themselves known at this instant. He shut his eyes. This was _hardly_ the time, really. Did he crave company so much he desired England now? The warmth felt dull to him, the instinctual urge to lean forward and wrap his arms around his lean form gnawed too strongly. He settled for hooking his non-rotted arm around his left shoulder, letting his head sag against England's back. It felt awfully comfortable. He did not expect any such thing to come to him, in the midst of all this death and destruction. "I am a frog, and now I am a slug," he mused, and his nose bumped against his spine. "Dear me, I'm hoping I would not be compared to any more creatures in your garden. There are roses there, and yet I only get the slimy things."

"The saddle is only built for one" he grumbled to explain why they had to be so close, feeling the (dead? was he dead?) nations warmth against him, "France, we will be rubbing together, so don't you dare get aroused. You've ridden horses before, and as I'll have to reins you should really hold my waist so there is no risk of you falling off" He was scolding him like a child now as he felt his head, "You'll break your neck if you continue. I don't mind a bit of blood or mess, just don't get your fluids inside me. I'm not sure how people transform" He let out a quiet gasp, "Escargot" he muttered challengingly

"Can I even _get_ aroused, I wonder?" he sighed, hand still stubbornly around his shoulder. "I would really like to know. You should be happy if I am, it would show I am not already... gone..." Cue another dramatic sigh. But, of course, he was not being dramatic. This was a point of sorrow for him. "I am very sad," he announced. "Surely, if my hand were around your waist, I'd be accused of groping, and I shall be thrown off by _you_. I am merely taking precautions, mon cher." But his hand went rather slowly down to his waist, where it rested. He pulled his head back up. As much as he would like to tease, the prospect of turning England sobered him. He let out an even louder gasp. "How _dare_ you, you are as bad as your scones! Though..." he sniffed. "I suppose I must taste exquisite."

"France, get that thought out of your head when we are on a horse in the middle of a god damn city of rubble probably with biters getting ready to come for us. And tighter. We may have to do sharp maneuvers." he growled, putting his hand on Frances rotting arm and moving it around his waist as well, careful not to hurt it if he possible could. He was pretending it wasn't because he wanted to be touched or anything, "Lets go" he muttered. "Exquisite as mouldy cheese" he teased back, kicking Duke on into a walk, missing trot (too bouncy, he decided), into a canter and then lope. He couldn't gallop with the added weight, nor stand particularly, so he was left to move in time with his stallion, hips rolling in circular motions to the hoof movements, "And my scones aren't bad. It's just magic. Speaking of which, I will get you patched up once we get back, so stay conscious"

"Oui, oui. Whatever you say, mon Angleterre." He forced his grip to tighten (slightly more than necessary, but he craved the sensation of touch). It would be even more embarrassing, should he be flung off the horse by a particularly wild turn. He could only brace himself for the journey ahead. They swung into motion, his hair blowing back from the slight breeze. The air was cool against him, he could feel that, at least, and the rocking of Arthur's horse. The effect of their start was instantaneous. He was of proper posture, suddenly, back a bit too straight, and what if his _limbs_ decided to fall? Would that happen? He could list and tumble off the side, and maybe his arms would still be stuck around England's waist. "Those scones can't merely be the fault of your magic. I'd much rather be eating my _very exquisite_ mouldy cheese. Euh, like brie! I think I would like brie now, oui." He cast England a look, though he doubted he could see it from here. "I will be very conscious, don't you worry. Where might we be heading?"

"I am not _your_ England, frog face" he growled, taking the rein in one hand to reach over his shoulder and tap the Frenchmans nose with the other. He was also feeling the effects of the touch, the sensation of his Francis touching him, calling him _his_ was enough to tint his cheeks pink, "Brie is disgusting." he commented. He didn't respond to his other question, but gestured upwards towards the hill and the castle once they had left the town, steering Duke upwards towards the stone walls that would protect them. He could see the countryside, the destruction it brought sadness to him as he looked among the remains of his once beautiful country from the hill. He suddenly got off Duke with a sigh of relief, opening the gates and closing them once he had led Duke in, taking the now sweaty horse to the stables, looking exhausted himself as he bolted the iron, "The people who I keep safe are human.We have very few rations" he widened his arms to offer for France to essentially fall into them off the horse, as a gentleman. "I'll take you were you'll be safe, you'll be fixed up." _but I can't promise anything yet_ he added silently

"You are. You always will be." He sighed, but it was a happy sigh. England's touch still lingered on his nose. He quite enjoyed the feeling of it. "...And it is not." He glanced up towards the crest of the hill, and Dover Castle (He recognised it. It was almost perpetual, and of course it would survive this too!) sat atop it. It spent its centuries defending England, one of his oldest strongholds. It sent quite a thrill up his spine when the gates ground open. Beyond the hill lay the expanse of Dover — now a collection of darkened buildings. He could not spot the one he had lain in. It wasn't much better off than the mess that Coquelles had become. He glanced at England's arms. How very kind of him, to offer to help him off. He wouldn't act like this if France weren't in this sorry state. "At least you have your humans," he said, stiffly. "I don't think I would have to eat. I'm... not sure. I'd like to keep my mind as it is, but who's to know? You say there are _humans_. I might— I might just—" He shook his head. Dieu, he had to focus on getting off. Swinging his leg off the edge, he fell rather heavily into England. "You must try! I cannot live like this, rotting away."

"I will never be," he growled simply in return. France had to be joking. He was not some body for the man to use - as much as he craved to be. He wasn't fooling for such degenerate behavior. "I have my humans for now," he grimaced, "In Dover, but I still have a country to clear out. Do not forget that. And then I promised Catherine I would help her free Wales. Yes, that is a point. I suppose you'll be wanting flesh. I can not spare any from my arms or legs, and stomach would be dangerous for me - who knows what you could strike. I hate to say it, but you may be left with what is usually used in grafting surgeries, and I am as thoroughly repulsed by the idea of you eating - not even in an innuendo way - my ass as you."

He held onto France tightly in his arms. God, he was in a pitiful state. "Bloody hell, I will try." he picked the man up, leading him inside and grimacing at the female representative of Wales, "Cathie, tie Duke up will you? I'll need you to make sure this idiot doesn't rip himself dear from his treatment." he then changed to Ancient Gaellic, as spoken amongst the British Isle when they kept things private. With a nod and wink, she left. England dragged Francis down into a room with a straw mattress, runic symbols everywhere in the basement, and placed the bigger nation down on his lap as he sat, "Brownie" he looked at the small creature that had appeared from the hole, "Can you.. can you fix him?" An affirmative nod. England grabbed some thread and grimaced, "I'll be the catalyst" he sighed, but it was necessary. He closed his eyes, chanting an incantation in his head, skin glowing as he let his body flow free and the magical energy into his blood stream, the thread glowing in time. His wings, as big as himself, appeared, adorning the room in a golden light. He was stuck in a limbo, unaware of what was happening as he fed his energy to the thread that the Brownie would weave into Frances' wounds to stitch him up, leaving his flesh new, an effect of such healing magic, although it would not turn him back from what he was now. Time meant nothing to him, so after an hour or so England collapsed back, he was drained and unconscious from the procedure. Wales had been warned to stay clear until it was over, lest anything bad happened to her.

"I won't," he said, firmly. A pang of guilt shot through him, for leaving his countrymen. He couldn't bear the screaming thrumming beneath his skull, that might have been one of the reasons. Or was it? His mad dash for the ports was a blur to him, perhaps he'd already been ridden with fever then. "I think I heard rumours, that there was a cure here. Non, that was why I came. I was not... I could not leave them. _Why_ did I leave them? At least Wales will be saved." He leaned back. "Ooh, anything is better than having to eat your ass, or anyone else's — Ah, salut Catherine." 

England sighed, "I wish there was a cure, and I doubt you'll let me use you to find one. So far I believe that is is a parasite in the brain, the eggs exchanged by bodily fluids," he informed France before they went into the room, "So please keep your own far away from people until further notice."

Frances lips curved into a wry smile, but it felt hollow. He couldn't _stomach_ the idea of having to eat flesh, or hurting any of England's people. He felt himself get lifted from the ground, watching as Catherine sauntered off. He did wish he could understand what they were saying. He was dropped on straw bedding. It was soft enough. He felt he might drift off to sleep, should he not have spied the little creature... or noticed the face that it was not the straw that was beneath his head after all, but England's lap. He shifted closer to him, slowly reaching to cling onto the soft fabric of his shirt. From there, he cast England a lazy smile. France was safe now. Nothing mattered. He could die here, and join the others. Surely, it must be heaven, if he could see an angel? England had beautiful wings, white and feathery. He'd quite like to touch it. Reaching his hand up, he paused as he watched a golden thread wind its way up his rotting up, pulling his papery skin together. The moment seemed to last forever. His hand must have fallen at some point. And now England was asleep, and France could barely move. He supposed he'll just lie, right there. It was very nice, and he doubted his dearest England would mind. He was so very soft, and warm. Like the rabbit he loved to compare him to (not really, his knee was a bit bony, but let him live his dreams).

Catherine came in after the healing process was done, "Ow, that's a lot of energy in here. Artie, stop trying to drain me," she joke scolded at the unconscious body, heading over, "You okay, France dear? I know you're pumped full of energy now, you're radiating it, and probably feel like you can conquer the world, but please, please don't. Stay here until England wakes up. You'll pull the stitches. He won't know anything you do," she winked, "You have a free ticket to your own angel for however long until he wakes up." Who knows if she was joking or not, "You can change position on the mattress, just don't.. strain yourself. No heavy lifting." she took Englands wings and wrapped it around the two of them with a final wink, "Tell him I'm following his orders and expect backup in a few days. And ask him how dad is when he's visiting" and with that, she left, although her hand has already turned into red scales from the amount of magic in the room, noticeable when she waved. Probably subconsciously, because he seemed to be asleep, Arthurs arms wrapped around Frances body in return with a soft smile. He seemed at peace somewhat, although he seemed to be mouthing things in his slumber.

"I can conquer the the world from here, Mademoiselle Catherine! I should not even have to move!" he murmured, sounding quite dreamy indeed. He fluttered his eyelashes up at her. "I think I... would like to shave! Mon Dieu, there should be a razor somewhere, and I'll throw it away right after because there'll be my blood on it, and there'll be undead crawling like cockroaches all over this castle. That'll have to wait, dear me, wouldn't want to pull my stitches!" He laughed to himself, lifting his head just to bury it in Arthur's chest. "I apologise, you just have no idea how very happy I am! And _mon ange!_" He gasped. "Anything! I could— I could even tell him I love him, and he will never know. Oh, Catherine, I am content. _Merci beaucoup_, I owe you my heart. My _soul_. The only part of me that will be doing any heavy lifting is my love for you." France's grin grew ever more dastardly as those feathers closed around him, but he bid her a wink in return. "Rest assured, I— Ooh, that is so fascinating! Your hand! You've always liked your dragons, of course!" And then Catherine was gone, and all that was left was England. He lay, sprawled and ravishing and beautiful. His hand around him sent a shudder up his spine. It almost felt like his heart were beginning its beat again. France rolled himself over as slowly as he could, minding his stitches throughout. His legs were now tangled in England's, his fingers laced through the slimmer digits of the other's. His body pressed against his was _heaven_. Ah, as it turned out, he needn't have worried about his capability to be aroused. Dieu, his libido outlasted his _life,_ by right. It was impressive.

But non, he could not do anything to him. He wished he could stare into his piercing eyes, see him realise he could no longer deny what they were together. But France could not bear to push this. Everything was uneasy enough as it was. He'd lasted centuries crushing his desire for his _rosbif_, and really, he should keep at it, especially in the midst of the world's end (England was not ready, perhaps he didn't even feel the same way—) So France silently thanked Catherine yet again, before slumping atop England. All that was left to do, he decided, was to fall asleep to the rise and fall of his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Matthew is famous for his cold winters - the only thing colder in the past few years has been the other side of Frances bed"

He awoke against a tree, confused. When had England moved in so they were out in a forest? More importantly, where had he gone? He shifted, standing up and looking up at the scene before him.

England was leaning against Hesse, the others arm around his shoulder as he rested his head, blinking tiredly against one of his closest friends and ex-lover.   
"Father, I have no idea anything. Just tell me who is dead"  
"I can't do that, Arthur.."  
"Please! I'm begging you. Hesse, darling, please, tell me," he seemed desperate

— As it turned out, England was attached. That was to be expected, he was deserving of love, and France was not a jealous man by nature! It almost brought tears to his eyes, seeing him so content in his partner's arms.

He recognised the lover in question as one of Prussia's deceased brothers. One of them (he could never tell Saxony and Hesse apart), at least. The one with the dashing scar should be Hesse. He thought. He hadn't a clue. And the angel standing across them must be... England's father? A spark of recognition, some distant memory, awoke at the sight of him. He was cloaked in white, massive wings spreading behind him. England himself had a pair of rabbit ears and his angel wings. None of this seemed very real to him, no.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he called. France stepped into the clearing. "But I couldn't help but hear something about death? This... This is the afterlife, is it not?"  
  
England jumped as he saw France, "How.. what.." he looked at his father, then back at France, "no, no.. fuck.. he's not suppose to - you promised! You promised he wasn't dead!" England seemed to be shouting, angry. "Arthur, he's not dead, it's okay," Britannia reassured him as Hesse was holding him tighter, running his finger along his shoulder to try and calm the man down. England touched the lop rabbit ears, bringing them under his chin as he stared, then growled, "If he's not dead, then it is Gaul, isn't it, merely disguised as her son. Francis can not visit here - I am perfectly aware that he does not possess magic. And I'm not allowed to die here, if you hadn't noticed, he needs me, and so do my people." Hesse looked over his shoulder, showing her scar and grinning, "Hallo. It's been a while, France. You're being silly, Arthur, that is France, you'd be dead if it was Gaul," he chided him, stroking one of the ears, which England shook his head too. "It's impossible," England insisted  
  
France very wisely kept his mouth shut. For a moment, a flash of panic shot through him. Arthur was right, he could be dead. Maybe it hadn't worked. Maybe he died as soon as he shut his eyes... And his infected body must still remain, in the world of the living. Dieu, what if it had already sunk its teeth into Arthur? He glanced from Britannia to Hesse (presumably) to England, and decided he was going to have to trust Britannia. He gave them all a tentative smile. He lifted the edge of his tunic, and it broadened. _Parfait_. Hesse turned, proving his identity, and he offered a wave in return. "I'm fairly sure I am France, oui," he muttered, wryly. "I should know if I am Gaul. Or if I am dead, I hope."  
  
"Fuck.. I'm too tired to deal with this" he murmured. Hesse gestured for France to join them as he sat down, England sitting beside him and resting his head on the dead nations shoulder, "Keep me alive if you can, dear" he requested as he closed his eyes, not sure if to which of the three nations he was addressing. Hesse was still holding England close, whispering something in his ear which the younger nation gave a wary smile to. Hesse chuckled and rolled his eyes, "He loves you in that, France", getting an elbow to the ribcage for saying such things, "We were just discussing the situation. Of course, dead nations like Prussia have managed to stay in the world somehow, while others like the ancients or me haven't, although you're lucky Bavaria isn't at your doorstep anymore. So there has to be a third party involved in these infections. England thinks a parasite, like the ones found in deep water fish that control their brains, but Britannia has put forward the rather dark idea of it being a curse put forth by someone on the world."   
"Shut up, don't scare 'im"   
"My child, you need to rest," Britannia warned   
"I told Catherine.. she'll go without me.. I need to wake up and help her.."   
Hesse sighed, "You'll be here permanently if you strain yourself by waking"   
"Don't want to.." England murmured   
"You're in safe arms as you rest," he nodded at France

Hesse sighed and continued stroking his ears, England putting his weight on him and closing his eyes. He seemed out of it from the strong accent when he spoke and the drowsy voice and look, now just resting on the other nation. Hesse drew a dagger, handing it to England, who fiddled with it as a distraction. Britannia was frowning at France, "What's wrong, little one? You look sad" he asked in a hushed voice, voicing his worries  
  
France sauntered his way over to the group, another lazy little smile worming its way upon his face. "I'm glad he does! I think it was one of my best looks, oui? _Ohonhonhon_, don't deny that, Angleterre." He smoothed his outfit out, glancing at his legs (he had stockings, this was a good thing). Slowly lowering himself into the grass, he tilted his head at Hesse's theories. "Ah, if it is a curse, then... who could have caused it?" His eyes narrowed. "I was under the impression no human would be more powerful than the, euh, angels here. _Mon Dieu_, why would anyone wish for the end of mankind?" He turned his gaze towards Britannia, perfectly-coiffed locks falling over his left eye. He did not bother to rearrange them, choosing instead to eye Hesse and England as they went about being a happy couple. They were so sweet, and England was so kind. Hesse was a wonderful man. "...Am I little? I wish I was," he mused. "Things were a lot simpler, then, Monsieur Britannia." He shifted a little, propping his head up on his hand. He allowed his voice to drop to a whisper. "I am infected. I worry I might never be the same, and I'm not in my body now, am I? If the infection chooses to wake, your Arthur is lying _defenceless_, in my arms."  
  
England gave him a glare, resting against Hesses chest and staying silent. Hesse sighed, "There is one angel here, Britannia. Arthur isn't a full angel, as you know, he isn't a hermaphrodite. Angels are. People can wish for a lot of things, if we knew, we'd tell you. Why does one wish to conquer the world? Perhaps the person knows the cure and can revert it, but this is the easiest way to take over. A long sought after revenge. Demons do exists, and they can be strong." Britannia frowned, also lowering his voice, "You also happen to be aroused and against him. Your body won't do anything without your permission here, it is merely a dream world. I can see where you are looking and your problem. Hesse and England are not together, they have not been for well over a century - look, Arthur is weak, defenceless, suffering. Hesse is merely caring for him."  
  
"Then let us hope that we can destroy this plague before it takes more of our people, whether or not a demon might be behind this. I cannot even say if your surviving brothers are _surviving_ anymore, though I don't suppose you would know?" He folded his arms across his chest. "Well!" he hummed. "He is an angel to me." He heaved a great sigh of relief at that. "So the only thing I would need to worry about is my erection! Why, this is _splendid_." Laughing quietly, he held his other hand against his lips. "Ah, don't get me wrong, I am happy for them. Perhaps I might be acting a bit off, and for that I apologise, but I fully understand. They deserve their love, whether or not they are together now." He sniffed. "But it is sad that Hesse is gone from our realm."  
  
Britannia gave him a strange look, "..You are jealous of their close friendship? I don't understand," he sighed, trying to get his head around the youngsters. He could sense emotion and the two hugging most certainly had no romantic feelings for each other. "Hesse is happy here, we move on. It is not hard to die" Hesse chuckled, while Arthur stared at France, in shock, "Ja. I know, but I can not tell. And many more will die. We'll work on our side of things, but Arthur will need your help when you wake. We can promise you anything if you co-operate, as the dead only know so much. Germany will be fine, er hast tough skin"  
  
"I'm not jealous," he clarified, looking rather affronted. "It is that kind of melancholic happiness, you know, when you are happy for someone, but your heart feels like it might be melting, because it is so rare that you see England so content and I wish I could make him feel like that.... Dieu, that is not helping my case— I'm _happy_ for them, you have to believe me. Close friendships are _magnifique!_" France raised an eyebrow at Britannia, offering him a light shrug. "Perhaps we put too much weight to death. It is hard for the living to understand." He spun himself around to smile at Hesse. "_Merci_, for helping us. I'll be sure to help in any way I can as well. And don't you worry, I'm _very_ cooperative. I fully believe Europe lives." He frowned, ever so slightly. "Ah, if you really can promise us anything..." He was tempted to joke about promising him England, but he did think he might get bludgeoned by the man himself. "Promise you will keep us all safe, as best as you can."  
  
"Would you like me to tell you that that sounds exactly like heartbreak because you think the person you love does that return the feelings?" Britannia mused, "I think he is more tired than content - he is a few steps away from death." he informed the Frenchman. England frowned and murmured, "Me or him? 'Cuz Christoph can't interfere. Father can. But it would cost his life to save another nations. It's weird how you can die twice here. I don't want to die.." Hesse sighed and nodded, "We're limited on what we can do. Keep you safe? Trust Arthur on his plan, you'll be free soon enough. We'll continue researching here, but if you do the experiments planned, Arthur can offer you a mountains weight in gold in exchange. Whatever you feel is enough payment. Come on, Arthur, rest now."   
"Will Francis be safe?"   
"Yes. He's probably going to wake up before you"  
  
"I'm quite aware," he sighed, dryly. France's eyebrows shot up, heart nearly plummeting to his knees. "Hm, really? That is... remarkably concerning." Again, He really shouldn't have made his apparent heartbreak so obvious. He averted his gaze. England could have _died?_ Healing him? "No one is dying twice!" he called, before nodding at Hesse. "Alright. I trust him, I'll do whatever I can. And payment is unnecessary, unless I can be paid in love. Thank you for being here."  
He stared at Arthur, the way he asked for his safety. He was really tempted to mention what he truly wanted of him, but really, that would be admitting defeat. So France only bunched his skirt around himself, getting to his feet. "_Bonne nuit, Angleterre._"  
  
"Three weeks of leeching does that" Britannia murmured sadly, "It is not your fault" Hesse chuckled, "Depends whose love you want. We can easily send a pretty person to your doorstep for as many nights as you want or create your perfect lover for a human relationship, but they would not be immortal," he laid England down on his lap, letting the other nation drift off. He didn't seem to be waking anytime soon. Asleep even in a dream.   
  
"Would you like to see you everyone?" Britannia offered  
  
"I... Alright." France grimaced. He certainly hoped it wasn't. "_Merde_, he deserves his sleep." "Alas, Hesse, it is not a human I want." He glanced down at the sleeping nation, sighing rather dramatically. "It's intriguing, though. You can create _people?_" France pondered Britannia's offer for a moment, before deciding that he would like a tour of the area. It wasn't every day that one could be perfectly lucid in a dream. "...But I will be back! Stay right there," he told Hesse. It wasn't as if he could move at this point, he acknowledged this.  
  
"If you want a nation, you can ask their parents for their hand in marriage and if they accept, the nations will be officially engaged, it's a slightly easier way than asking the nation directly," Britannia informed France, clearly amused by the whole situation. Hesse nodded, "They have a short life, sometimes we'll create them because we're merely bored up here. We'll be going to see Saxony when England awakes, he'll have some plans and ideas too and England wanted a fake fight to practice his swordplay. Ey - Britannias right. You want love but not a human, so if you want a nation I 'uppose we can do something. Potion or marriage - 'ang on why are you sighing? Me or him exactly?"  
  
Britannia was baiting him now, wasn't he? He raised an eyebrow, looking significantly unimpressed. Then he looked at Hesse. And then back at Britannia. How did he get himself into this situation in the first place? Who knew it took only an apocalypse to have him asking England for his hand in marriage. Again. And, considering how the last time went, he did not have high hopes. "Well then," he began, listing forwards slightly. England was going to _end_ him for doing this. He closed his eyes. "I hereby ask you, as England's father, for his hand in marriage. You may... offer your blessings as well, dearest former lover of his." It shouldn't be this simple. He found himself cracking his left eye open just to gauge their reactions. A marriage was a commitment, one that made his heart flutter at the prospect. With England, no less? Non, he shouldn't be thinking so far ahead, but he couldn't help the flood of warmth at the idea of it.  
  
Britannia didn't look surprised at all and merely smiled, "Your request has been granted under the condition you will always protect him, as well as a dowry fee of however much you believe he is worth and finally that you will get him to say 'je t'aime'" his voice was soft, calm and quiet,as he handed France a golden celtic circlet. Hesse looked shocked and tightened his grip, "Englands going to kill a bitch. I didn't even know you liked him - whoever said former?," he seemed protective as he joked, but then grinned, "This could be funny. I'm glad for both of you - shocked, but glad - and I do hope you make it out of this alive. 'Cuz I'm still giving him some swordplay practice"  
  
"It was _official?_" France spluttered, the first inklings of horror worming their way into his heart. Slowly, he forced his eyes up to stare at the circlet, trembling fingers closing around it. It was cool to the touch. "I... I didn't know. I thought you were just saying that. Hypothetically. Oh, _putain!_" He gasped. "He'll have me drawn and quartered!" With that, France sank to his knees, fingers digging into his scalp. What absolute catastrophe had he gotten himself into this time! England hadn't even agreed to this, he should have known better than to ask for his hand in marriage before he even demonstrated any signs of reciprocating. It was then when Hesse's words registered, thereby confirming his fears. "I assumed!" he snapped. There was grass on his legs now, _eugh._ "Look at the love in your eyes and tell me I should not assume you used to be together. And I'm perfectly alright with that, but— I— _Merci._" He tipped backwards into the grass. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. At least the sky above was clear. It was a pretty day in the afterlife. "I don't know what I am doing, to be very honest. The nation of love, brought to his knees by... whatever this is. It has not been a good week." "But, oui," he sighed. "I promise. I'll protect him for the rest of eternity. I-I can't say I know what _Angleterre_ is worth, but if I could pay you all of my country, I _would_." He let a hand fall over his eyes. "I highly doubt he would ever be inclined to say he loves me, let alone in my language. Perhaps my maman has more advice to give other than to have him brutally killed."  
  
Britannia sighed as he watched, "It's okay, little one, calm down. Everythings okay" he murmured, "You love the boy and he loves you, there is nothing to worry about. You won't be killed either." he soothingly stroked the blondes hair, murmuring something in the same ancient language England has used earlier. Hesse burst out laughing, chortling with his grin, "France — France, shut up. Listen to yourself, you buffoon. Me and England are close friends, don't get your pants in a twist. I'm just teasing ya - wait until I tell Saxony. He'll laugh so hard he'll cry. Makes a nice change from Bavaria being drunk." Britannia smiled softly, "I can tell you where your mother is, but I shouldn't come with. Our tensions are still unfavourable. You don't need to give me any land. That circlet is a relic passed down by mages as a sign of unionship, if this was the olden days England would wear it to symbolise such a partnership."  
  
He remained sprawled in the grass. This, coupled with his tunic, was making him feel much like a child. _'Little one'_, Britannia called him. He had not felt so _little_ in centuries. Being helpless was something that seized him from the inside and refused to let go. He was in control of things, that was how he could relax in the past. But he'd been nothing but on edge and wildly erratic since the start of the world's end. "...I-I know. _Merci_." He rolled over and went face-to-face with Hesse. "Oui, I think I've gone mad," he decided. "But I insist, I approve of your friendship. I really do. Ah, now I'd like to see Saxony laugh himself to tears! He always looked very serious to _moi_." Saying that seemed to take a weight off his chest. He forced himself back upwards, smoothing his _très bien_ hair out and adjusting the circlet. He returned the smile, hoping he looked at least marginally more presentable now. "Then tell me where my mother is, I understand. I will still need a dowry fee for you, _beau-père Britannia_." France glanced up at his circlet, resisting the urge to run his hand along it again. "He could still wear it," he mused. "I think he would look very pretty in one."  
  
"It'd only be right for you to place it on his head then" he murmured. Hesse chuckled again, "He is completely serious. People wonder how he and Prussia are related. Oh well" he petted Englands head with a smile, stroking one of the ears before winking at France, pausing partway down and fiddling with _something_ Whatever it was, the reaction was immediate. England let out a soft moan before turning, jerking and biting whoever had touched him. "Scheisse," the German exclaimed loudly, although glad the guy didn't awaken. Britannia looked neutral on the matter, "She'll be further South down by the beach"  
  
France _gasped_. For a moment, he could imagine the circlet going over England's fluffy ears, and he nearly died of joy then. "But you can't doubt his relation to Germany, I'm sure," he laughed. Then he froze. What was Hesse doing? He daren't return the wink just yet. His gaze crept down to those ears, and then... This time, France loosed his signature laugh so loudly he feared he might wake England by some stroke of horrible luck. "_Teach me your ways_," he declared. Amusing _and_ effective, quite the excellent move. His respect for Hesse increased tenfold that instant. He shot a grin at Britannia, who was impressively unaffected by this, before staring rather eagerly back at Hesse.  
  
England was drop dead sleeping. It was safe. Hesse waved him over and split the fur on the ears using his fingers, muttering something in German as he showed the singular curly strand of brown fur, slightly longer than the rest of the hairs but quite well hidden in the mess. "Perfect for hidden attacks" he assured the Frenchman. Luckily, Britannia still had no effect, as far as he was concerned Hesse had gotten in trouble for his actions. He believed in karma, so rarely got offended by that sort of stuff.  
  
"Hidden attacks! I am _intrigued_," France marvelled, gliding closer to Hesse. He spotted the strand near-instantly, and recognised it for what it was. The grin on his face morphed into something resembling a very, very suspicious smirk. There it was. Precious leverage. He'd known England for so long, how was this not already something he knew? "May I...?" He leaned in, hand very lightly stroking the newly-discovered curl. He must look _unhinged_ at this pont, he realised, laughing like a villain of some sort. _Dieu,_ his poor maman would be so disappointed in him, but he barely cared.  
  
"'Course you can," Hesse had removed his hands from anywhere close to Englands mouth as he let France touch. As it turns out, teasing and light touching was one of the easiest ways to get England aroused, especially when it came to his curl, as the low moan was immediate. His head jerked away, eyes closing with a confused and scared expression before he jumped up, letting out a snarl and slapping the French nation. He didn't stay long, but rather rushed to his father and hugged him, the older angel hushing his sons tears (head hidden in his chest) and wrapping his wings around the younger.  
  


France _shrieked_, the force of the slap striking him so suddenly he was sprawled on the grass again. It stung. Why on earth had he done that! He groaned like recently shot man, slowly creaking back up again. His face stung and he was very much about to break out in loud complaining, until he saw. England was crying. What had he _done?_ He was torn between shocked amusement and utter horror at the situation, and whatever lust-fueled fire that was still burning within him. All that came out of him was a half-giggle, muffled by the hand over his mouth. "_Merde,_" he choked out, eye twitching.

England whispered something and Britannia murmured back, stroking his hair and reassuring him, "It's okay, you're fine, no ones hurt you, just breathe.. no ones going to hurt you. It's modern times, you're safe here.." he kept on giving him calming words until the guy calmed down, "Are you calm now?" There was a short, but silent nod. "Is it time to apologize?" "Not on the bloody gits life. I was kind when he was injured and all he wants now is to abuse me for my body" was the choked response, although he stood firmly. "If that was true, you'd be dead," he murmured back "He's too bloody weak to kill me," England argued right back, "I may have been unconscious but I _know_ and I don't want to - I-I refuse. I know the terms and I won't fulfil them ever - he could never make me happy. He hates me. He's not even f_o_king human"

It took a moment for everything he was feeling to coalesce into anger. "I can hear that, you know," he snapped. "I could kill you now if I wanted to. I could just-- I am not _weak!_" He glared as hard as he could, but whatever spike of rage had dulled into a sort of hollowness. "...Why do I even bother, honestly." His hand closed around the circlet, and he yanked it off with enough force to tousle his hair. "Ah, You're right, for once. There's no use marrying your enemy. Who--" He tossed it on the ground and watched it bounce away. "--Is no longer even a person, I suppose." He stared at Britannia for a moment, and then at Hesse. "I'll be off looking for my mother. _Adieu_." And then he marched off, hiking his tunic up to trudge over the grass.

"You do want to kill me, it's been the only thing you've tried to do ever" England growled back. If it wasn't weakness, what the hell was it? He just buried his head back into his fathers chest. Hesse decided it was best to leave the chaos. He travelled, he travelled out to the stone cliffs where Gaul usually was, where his white haired mother was in an ancient warriors armour and staring out to the ocean with an old double handed blade. She was scowling as usual and looking older than ever.  
  
England's words still rang in his ears as he made the long hike towards his mother. When she came into view, he sighed. "Maman," he began, offering her a light curtsy. "I've come to see you." ...as if that wasn't obvious enough as it was.  
  
Anderitia turned head, "Francis. I-Are you dead?" she quickly touched her sons cheek, "Oh, my poor baby boy, who hurt you? I've never seen you here before" She let out a gasp, "Did those Britannic monsters hurt you? Those demons -- I'll kill them if they hurt you, sweetie."  
  
France drew back slightly at his mother's cool touch, wincing. "It depends on what you consider _dead_, I suppose. You are right, I have never been here. I... I've missed you." He choked back a sob. "They didn't hurt me, oh non. I can handle him myself."  
  
"My baby boy.." Gaul murmured, pulling him into a hug and kissing his cheeks, "I've missed you too - oh, you've grown so much. You look all big and strong. Your hairs still the same and you still have your fathers eyes" She sighed, "You no longer need me now, I understand, but you can't blame a mother for caring. What did they do to you, mon petit chou? Did they hurt you? Wipe away your tears now, you're okay here, the demons won't come"  
  
That was it. France wrapped his arms around his mother, sobbing into her chest. Oh, how he needed to hear those words! "I need you, maman. They aren't the demons, I am! It was _moi!_" he wailed. "What do I do now? I- I've ruined everything!" "I was betrothed to England," he gasped, in a moment of clarity. "I _love_ him, maman, but he hates me so."  
  
Anderitia looked shocked, but stroked his hair, "You're not a demon, far from it, you're my beautiful, strong son," she assured him, using a firm and commanding voice. She wasn't quite a comforter. "You do whatever you think it best, you should trust your decision. You can't ruin anything when it comes to _them_. I speak from experience - they enjoy twisting hearts around their fingers then ripping them apart" Her voice sunk to a growl, "Let me make it clear, you can not love a demon. He must have put you under a spell - potion. I'll take you to the druids, they'll heal you up, then you'll be fine."  
  
France stilled. There it was, he felt like a child again. He drank flattery like it were wine, and his mother's words were no different. But for once, he was not drunk on it. In fact, his mother's touch was starting to feel like ice around him. "There has been no such spell," he said, just as low. "I do trust my decision, _maman_, and that is to stay by him." Dieu, he was on a roll today with all his burning bridges. He pulled away carefully, meeting his mother's eyes stubbornly. "He is no demon. He... He's the most beautiful angel I've ever seen, really."  
  


"You're being unreasonable - you wouldn't know if you were under such an enchantment - no, curse. He's probably making you think so delusional to hurt you, look at the state you're in, sobbing," he took his hand, gripping tightly, "You're not returning to him while you are still in this world, he will be with his demon of a father. In fact, he is already gone. The _monster_ is no longer here."

"I know the state that I'm in!" He glanced at his hand, eyes flaring at the contact. "So what if I'm unreasonable? _L'amour_ is unreasonable. I was wrong, and I will go and you cannot stop me. He saved my _life_." His heart felt like it were breaking again. To be reunited with his mother, only for things to end this way? He could come back. He would come back, but not now. "_Merci, maman,_ for making me realise this. Whatever you may think of me, you must know I still love you very much." A wan smile curved his lips. And with that, he wrenched himself free and ran for his life.

There was a rather loud screech of "Britannia" after France had left. She had stayed silent throughout the rest of the conversation, glaring daggers at her son. The clearing as empty. Britannia was invisible, unable to show himself because of the risk, England awake (and wearing the circlet) and Hesse had fled after the scuffle.

The scream seemed to rustle the trees, and he cringed. France did not recall ever running so fast in the last century. That he he ran more quickly away from his mother than the zombies themselves was rather telling. He burst back into the clearing, and oh non. His only lifeline, his dearest Monsieur Britannia, was gone. It was just England. And he was awake. "Oh," he sighed, with as much venom as he could muster. "There you are."

Englands body seemed to be fading in and out of existence. he didn't seem to register him as he sat, eyes closed and wings folded. He definitely didn't hear what he said, as there was no snarky response.

France stared indignantly for a few more moments, before realising the futility of the situation. He supposed he was going to have to face England's wrath back in their realm. With a huff, he plopped himself down beside his flickering body, and his eyes fell upon the circlet. "I do hope you're right about this, Monsieur Britannia," he said, just in case he was listening. He crawled over (there was grass everywhere now), and grabbed the circlet. France laid it carefully between the two of them. "You have an eternity to spend with my mother. Making up would be preferable. _Bon Chance_." He was asleep after a few minutes of fitful glancing. 


	4. Chapter 4

England had finally awoke. He let out a groan, feeling the weight of France against him, touching each other. He felt his heart jump suddenly. A string of colourful words went through his head at the situation. Fuck. This wasn't suppose to be how he found out. He quickly removed his hand from the other, although savouring the touch. "Bloody hell - you're heavier than me" he pointed out quietly, "If you do insist of this, can we at least swap?" he had reverted back to human by then. "Blasted.. crap.. I need to find Catherine." he kept the blush from his cheeks, although all he was really thinking about was how in this position France could very easily top him. No - the guy hated him. He wanted to kill him. He'd made that clear.He drew his fingers across Frances fringe, playing with it by curling it around his finger. Soft. And Beautiful. He'd gladly stay in his grips, but that would mean confessing, then he would merely become a tool. "Are you awake?" he whispered, "I'll ask someone to guard you while you wash - it'll have to be the stream, I'm afraid. There are no baths here and you'll want to clean the blood off. And we need to talk. I am not your bloody anything. Angel, England. You do not own me. Nor will you _ever_ kill me. You're on your own as soon as your wounds are gone," he growled the last part, "And after the experiments are done. We're doing them _now_. Get off of me."  
  
He was still on top of England. What a dreadful way to wake up, to the sound of loud English. Everything felt heavy all at once, the weight of his affliction settling in his bones. He'd much rather be dead now. France, stubbornly, did not move. Yes. For all intents and purposes, he was asleep. Even as England pulled his hand away and went about his loud complaining and _non_, they were not swapping, that would mean he would have to move, and---   
  
\---Then England's hands were in his hair. His eyes flung open. All was forgiven. Oh, it was _divine_. He wanted those deft fingers everywhere. And! And with his head on his chest, he could feel the rumbling of England's voice. He was suddenly _very_ awake. "Bonjour!" he whispered back. He pulled himself off England, delighted to find that his arms were strong enough to support himself. The last dredges of his anger materialised at mention of the killing, but he smoothed it all out with a smile. "Then can I admit that I am yours, then? There will be no killing if I can help it. There will be no overstaying my welcome, either." It pained him to say that, but perhaps it might not come to pass. England and his nasty words. He was in a better mood and he would _not_ let it be ruined again. He ran a hand through his hair, rolling fully off England. "Oui, oui, now, show me the way."  
  
England rolled his eyes at the Frenchmans stubborn determination to stay asleep at first, taking in how his face changed as he was touched. He could barely suppress a purr. "Oh, I damn wish I could make you English - you would shut up and stop all your stupid frog ways. Oh, so you promise to slit my throat cleanly? Absolutely-fucking-fantastic. I look completely forward to it," he sneered at the guy on top of him, sitting up and brushing himself off. At least he was strong enough now, that was a relief. He also didn't seem to have any love marks, which was damn lucky if anyone was to ask. He had to admit - he was missing Frances touch, his weight, his strange warmth. He was smiling at the idea of going - that stung his heart. oh, how he wanted to pull him back down to cuddle and kiss until contentment, to forget the World's End. Perhaps he wasn't happy on having his beautiful hair touched? Was it a look of anger or adoration..? He wasn't sure. He wished he knew. His smile made his heart flutter inside, of course. He was _stunning_. "Stay here then," he grumbled, hauling himself up and onto his feet, heading into a corner and revealing a cage, live rats inside. Scooping one up with his hand, he held the wriggling mass of fur out to France, "_Bite_" he commanded firmly, "No nonsense. You bite to transfer the disease - I need to know if other animals are at risk."  
  
"If you did somehow make me English, I'll have _my_ throat slit instead." England looked so _fierce_ with that sneer. It was unbearable. Every fiber of his body was burning with the desire to touch him, to ravish him (or to just wake up every morning to his ridiculously charming eyebrows). The look England was giving him could range anywhere from mild disgust to barely-disguised hatred. He'd long since given up trying to decipher what England was feeling. His love was a tangle of contradictions, at once guarded and an open book. And, oh, was he his love now? The most aggravating one he had ever known? He couldn't bear to call him an enemy. He was like a lion, really, with the way he remained untamed even as the sun set on his glorious _ass_. Which was exactly what he was lazily gazing at, until the rats came. Ah. There went his mood. What a shame, it felt good while it lasted. "Mon Dieu! C-Could we not at least cook them first?" he cried, fairly sure this counted as nonsense. "Non, non, don't you dare. I refuse—" He took the rat in his hands, watching it squirm in his hands. Woe was him, this was the end. He was going to bite a live rat. But of course, he reasoned, it was for the good of humanity. He would be a martyr, then. So he shut his eyes and very, _very_ slowly placed his lips on it. France nearly convulsed at the texture of matted fur, the worming about of its flesh and— and— something seized him in that moment. His teeth sank in near instantly. The squirming stopped. Blood was upon his lips, his _tongue_. But there was, strangely, no more disgust. France watched, almost in a daze, as he ripped out a chunk of its flesh. He was very certain he might go for another if he didn't spasm, shriek and drop its mangled corpse. He looked back up at England, eye twitching.  
  
"Then don't go about your bloody nonsense" he scolded him, "They have to be alive. You _said_ you would, in exchange for whatever you wanted, and you chose what you wanted. You've gotten it. What? Being greedy for a reward?" he gave him a harsh look. He wanted to take away the rat and replace it with his own tongue. Watching him eat the thing make him stomach squirm. He wanted to be sick - see the liquid trickle and the _sound_. His head was spinning. He let out a growl. He didn't want anything but himself to be in the Frenchmans mouth - wait, what was he thinking? He took the rat back and placed it into a separate cage, giving it a glare, "You weren't suppose to kill it! Fuck - lets see if it turns.." he sighed and grabbed two test tubes, "Sperm in one, saliva in the other" His cheeks turned red and he looked away pointedly. He wanted to see him, his flushed face, his groans, his arousal and how hard he could be. He wanted those fingers working his own cock, not jerking himself off. But no, he could never have that. It was too much risk now anyway. He wondered if he'd have to _help_. God forbid that. He cringed at how much he wanted that. There was some arousal, but he quickly forced it down. Now to wish his heart and head would stop..  
  
"You never said it was supposed to be alive!" he hissed. His heart was pounding (he was alive, he clung to that), and the same wayward part of him was suddenly aching to do the same with _England_. He clamped a hand over his mouth. That wasn't him. That really wasn't. They called him depraved, but this was too much. "I... I couldn't stop. _Merde_, what happened!" France really wanted to apologise to the rat, but it was almost comical, honestly, with the taste of it still festering in him. "You could've let me do that first," he scoffed, staring at the test tubes now. "When I was already hard in the first place, and not after that disgusting... affair." That was a lie. As it turned out, he _was_ depraved enough to arouse himself with his mad desires. He wasn't even sure if that was the infected part of him talking anymore. His hands were shaking as he gripped the test tubes. France had the saliva part done first. There was too much rat blood in his mouth, but a few hesitant swallows later and his spit was clear enough for a sample. Ah, and then came the next part. England was already blushing. All at once, he found his eyes raking down his lean back. Quite the shame it was that he did not look. But he could imagine England falling apart before him, gaze sharp but rapidly darkening as he beheld France. As he ran his fingers down his cock, growling in that slightly possessive way he did. He would challenge his stare, eyes half-lidded in turn.  
  
He gasped, fumbling for the zipper of his pants. Oh, he was very aroused now. The sudden awareness that England was here and _listening_ elicited a moan from him. France could imagine that the hands on his cock were his instead, non, he shuddered at the thought of it. England, panting and desperate, begging for him. He would be warm. He would go mad and fuck him into the wall. And! And at last, when he was slick with sweat and screaming his name — not France, even, _Francis_ — He would snarl and bite, and taste his blood— France cried out as he finished, scrambling to collect all of it. There was silence for a moment. Then he sank to the floor, panting. Did he honestly get off to the thought of _biting_ England? It was strange that the rat did not disgust him, even stranger that the infection was melting into his fantasies. He'd worry about that later. "_Et voila!_" he announced. He paused to catch his breath. "I hope that didn't traumatise you too much. God knows how very repressed you and your people are."  
  
England cheeks were burning a bright shade of red, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the test tube, careful not to drop it, but also very, very sure another noise from the Frenchman's mouth would make him collapse. His throat was parched now, dry from arousal. All he wanted was to be pounded by that.. thing. It _seemed_ big even when flaccid, let alone when it was hardened. He had seen the show and it had left an obvious effect on him. Forcing himself not to stand there like a petrified rabbit, he slowly syringed the two substances out and pushed them into two separate rats. He needed to see if they would change. He was barely able to conjure a response to his comments, so he didn't, but was forced to tear his stare away. He was embarrassed by how hard he had become, the some-what of a bulge uncomfortable against his pants and _begging_ to be touched by France - no, he could deal with that later. The guy had gotten what he wanted - a reaction. He shouldn't fuel the fire. "I-I um.." he seemed lost in that moment, squeezing his eyes shut, "I'll tell you when the results are in and whether you can go find one of your precious rent boys," he injected the rat, hands quivering. God - when did he become so weak? He wasn't repressed, a century or two was nothing in a countries lifespan. So what if he wanted to save his behind for Francis? Not as if it would ever happen apart from to let France win his stupid game. He refused to look back at him, concentrating on the rat only.  
  
"Rent boys? In the apocalypse?" he sighed. Now, what made England think he did that? France loved every single one of his lovers. He did not _buy_ their time, and even if he did, he would still love them for who they were! "I think I will sit here." And then he saw the tenting in England's pants. He had to have his non-dirtied hand on his mouth again to keep himself from laughing. This was quite obviously causing England some distress. He'd better leave him to his work. Rats, he mused, brought the first plague with them. This all felt quite familiar, Europe being taken by sickness, the smell of rot in the air. He didn't remember much of it. The idea of it was disquieting. But they did recover, the world would return from this, too. He realised his gaze had drifted back to England's ass during the course of his musings. Such was fate. Ah well, he'd much rather be staring blankly at its admittedly flat expanse than to fall into existential depression. "I wonder," he said, suddenly. "What made _you_ come to Dover?"  
  
He stared at the rats, ignoring what he could feel behind him, those beautiful blue eyes watching his every movement, staring at them to see the results. He was begging for it to be the same thing as what he would never admit he wanted. It was like an internal battle. "Prefer to have to get someone drunk and seduce them to satisfy your gagging John Thomas?" he snarled back, nails digging into the cage as he tried to calm himself. France was getting into his head. "I came to Dover because me and Catherine were having one of our endurance rides. _I_ was winning with Duke, of course, but it really isn't any of your business. We were doing cross country across the plains with a goal of who could get from Bath to Dover faster. But, erm.. we heard about the problem in London. I really tried to save it, I did, but I had to burn it all in the end. It was too much risk.. too many people. We saved as much as possible."   
  
One turned. One has become a withering mess with green splotches. One smelt of that disgusting rot that made him want to choke and gag - the same disaster the Frenchman had become. He waited impatiently for the other two. Nothing. He waited for another minute and nothing happened. He could feel his pupils dilating as he was practically losing control of his thoughts. No - he had to calm down. He tried slowly his breaths, but the fact there was a perfect Frenchman that made his heart beat rapidly and stomach flutter, sitting right there with his cock out. God the situation was too much. He turned and practically fled to _his_ Francis, pushing his against a wall as he ravished his mouth, "Don't bite" he commanded between breaths, pressing his lips up against his, hard and passionate. His head was woozy, he wasn't thinking anything apart from possessive 'mines', the world collapsing around him as he could _taste_ the faint taste of France, smell him, ignoring everything else.  
  
"Fuck.." he muttered, hands on Frances chest as he kept on pressing up against him. Unluckily for him, it didn't take long for him to come to his senses and back off, letting go of his Frenchman, still panting and flushed. "There, are you happy now? Still want to marry your worst enemy?" he clenched his fists together, "Didn't think so. Look, get it over and done with while I'm _willing_. I know I'm just your plaything," he spat the words out   
  
"I'm sure you adore being a slag. You can seduce whoever the damn hell you want and they'll always enjoy it. Any country you want you can sleep with. But as soon as someone turns down Mr. Sex-On-Legs it becomes a game to get them. As soon as you finally bed them, you lose interest. So _fine_. If that's what it'll take for you to stop annoying me every second, fine. Take what you want. Just be gentle." he was giving himself to France, sure his words were true. There was no way he could love him. This was all he was - a blurred face and ass. A challenge to try and achieve because everyone fell so easily into his grasps usually. After this, France would act like he didn't exist. No more of that hatred that made him feel like shit and guilty. In the end did it really matter that after this the guy would stop bugging him, there'd be no more petty fights, he'd move onto another challenger and forget him, never speak to him again.  
  
So it was mere coincidence that they both found themselves in Dover. That was alright. He propped his head up on his knee, watching as England observed the rats. He seemed... _agitated_. His flirtatiousness must be getting to him, but why should he back down? It was his only defence against having his heart be broken over and over, he thought, bitterly. But he kept himself quiet, rather discreetly staring at his exposed cock. This was hardly the time to be an exhibitionist.   
  
That second of distraction cost him.   
  
He heard the patter of footsteps first, and all of a sudden, England was upon him. His blood had frozen in his veins. His head struck the wall. England was warmer than he'd imagined, more _forceful_. France's lips parted for him, but he knew it was more from shock than desire. And England's body against his, flush against his chest, forced a gasp out of him. France was panting when England flung himself off him. He took a moment to stare. It wasn't one of his dreams, was it? It felt like a fever to him, a split-second of hallucination, borne from the illness that was taking his brain ( he _saw_ the rats, what if he was going to share the same fate?). But his heat still lingered. Ah, he was talking now. He didn't want to hear those words. Everything was a dizzying mess and his head was pounding.  
  
"Is that... what you think of me?" His voice was too hoarse. Piece by piece, aspects of England's behaviour over the centuries seemed to fall in place. "You think I want your body, so you _throw_ yourself at me so that I would stop. Is that all that we are?" A bark of laughter escaped him, derision thick in his tone. "I'm not as cheap as you think me, _Angleterre_. You will not be rid of me so easily. I... We could..." And in that moment, he wanted so badly to tell him how much he wanted to spend long nights talking to him, to lie in the grass and stare at the stars. To go on dates and bathe in each other's warmth. They could spend years rebuilding their world. Together. But whatever it was he was going to say died in his throat, for England looked like shattered glass.   
  
He _hated_ France.   
  
"I will not take anything from you," he continued, darkly. He wrinkled his nose. "Oui, you are a fool if you think I am going to let you go. As far as I am concerned, _le grand Empire Britannique_ does not surrender. Especially not to _moi_." England thought he was a plaything to him. His heart was shattering. He could barely breathe, but he forced a wry grin. "So chin up. Don't you dare give yourself to me, Arthur!"  
  
England stared at him, not sure what to say, "You.. you're a deranged prat. I don't understand. What do you want? What do you want from _me_? You despise me, but you are so insistent on marrying me. You want to conquer me, but you don't want to take what is being offered. What?" he let out a breathy laugh, "I'm not going to break as easily as you think if that is what this game is about."   
  
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "What, do you want to _earn_ a prize? Pretend, put on a mask for the others, a perfect facade that we are lovers so it makes you feel less bad when you finally take everything away? God, you're worse than Spain. At least he had the guts to admit to Romano. No - you'd hate to ruin your reputation. Well, let me tell you, I'm not ignorant. I never was. You wanted little Italy. No one else was good enough," he spat out the words, fist clenching, "But now I'm _useful_ to you, you suddenly want to treat me like a _person_ all of a sudden. Really gentleman-like, France"  
  
There went his mood for the second damned time in a row. "_Mon Dieu_, you _imbecil_. It is not a game to me! I— _what do I want?_ I think I've made that very clear. I want you, Angleterre. You! It is as simple as that. I don't want to conquer you. My heart bleeds for you, and not when your sword has run it through. I've waited for long enough, dreading the moment I would have to confront myself and say... Non, France, what is this? The country of love, blind to his own feelings?" He bit his lip, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. It was hopeless. What if England was right? What if this was all some sort of demented game to him, and he didn't even know that it was. He'd let his lust blind him. He'd let England think all he wanted him for was a good fuck when he wished for so much more. The fight left his body, and he was left, slumped against the wall. "I don't understand why you'd think I am so horrible," he breathed. "But I haven't been fair to you, have I? It was always about me, how I felt, and— I never considered— you're not a conquest, to me. You're not a spoil of war. You're my _equal_, as much as I would like to deny that. I've wanted all of Europe to be mine. I wanted everyone, and you, above all. But I supposed I've always known this could never come to be." He averted his gaze. "I no longer have a reputation to defend. Don't you see?" —another laugh— "I've ruined it enough. There is no reason why I should be loving you, _mon cher_, but I do." He didn't dare look at England at this point. He still had some of his pride left. "Whatever the case, I will stop. It might be better for us, oui? It... is only fair. I hardly know what _you_ want. For all I may know, you really do despise every fibre of my being."  
  
  
"And I hate seeing you weak," he muttered, still genuinely shocked, "I think that is the most pathetic but honest confession I have ever heard." he shook his head, letting out a sad chuckle, "We're both a mess, aren't we, absolutely destroyed and hopeless. That's not to say I believe you - I don't completely. You're still going to have to prove it" His touch was as tender as he could possibly be, sitting down next to the blonde and pulling him in, gently putting his lips up to Frances and kissing him, barely touching, just soaking in his warmth, the feeling behind the movements and words, putting his hand up to his chin. He stayed close to his body as he murmured, "Don't lie to me"   
  
He let his hands stray to his hair, "You wanted to stick your cock into Italy, know how _good_ it'd feel, but never with me. I was your sub-ordinate but you had your mind and heart set on him and Europe - it felt like I was nothing unless I could prove myself as superior or equal. It doesn't matter what you actually felt, you never bloody showed or hinted at it. You flirted with others, always going out and seducing new lovers, not caring about how they felt after a one night stand" He buried his head in one of his knees and sighed, "I despise you as much as you despise me - you may be the country of love but you are damn ignorant. Ever notice how I never _just_ had sex with people? Always a relationship. Always. Every single person. Because I never just want a one night stand, no matter how attractive the other may be. And a damn sight more, you bloody wanker, but _think_ Hesse, Saxony, China, Portugal, they were all just step-downs on what I could never have, same with Prussia and Spain, although that was a darn good revenge.."   
  
He pushed himself up, letting go of the body beside him, "I'm leaving before you leave me. In exactly 5 hours the channel will be blocked - if you want to return home _before_ we free this island, now is your last chance."  
  
France inclined his head, staring rather hopelessly back at England. He _was_ pathetic, wasn't he? It felt as if he had torn out his own heart. England's chuckle made his chest ache. France would not be weak, he was right. "...I-I suppose I will have to." And then he was crying. Not very hard, of course, but his eyes were stinging. He dared not sob, not when England was so close, his light touches making him feel faint. Why was he so gentle with him? It was too much. Carefully, he reached to run a trembling hand down England's back. England was so warm, his lips so _soft_. "I—" He pulled away, briefly, staring into his eyes. "I will not lie, _non._" France allowed his eyes to fall shut as England's hands tangled themselves in his hair. "I wanted the world for myself, _corrupted_ my beliefs in the process. When I was young, I used to think I will not become like this. But here I am. I'd... like to think I care about every one of them, at least." Of course he'd noticed. Or rather, he'd tricked himself into thinking that England was happy like this. The realisation struck him like lightning. It was all clear. And suddenly, the life found itself back in his veins. He used the first sliver of it to seal his cock back within his pants, of course, it was distracting him. England did not hate him. Things were quite the opposite, in fact. So all of England's relationships, _all_ of them, were all because of...  
  
France sat up, scrambling to stare after his retreating figure. The sudden lack of warmth was jarring. "I am a _fool_," he gasped. "And you are a coward. You should've made that clear! How was I supposed to know that you... you _reciprocated!_ _Mon Dieu_, you've made me think I would never be enough. I've spent years trying to fight whatever I've felt for you. I thought I would ruin you... and, I will, I think." He placed a hand over his head. "Maybe it _is_ just a game to me, I do not know anymore." With that, he shook his head and looked away. "...I will remain here. Europe is _gone_. If there are any French people on your islands, I shall be looking for them."  
  
"Oh, sweetheart, don't cry," he cupped his face, heart practically breaking at seeing him so broken and upset. He hated the tears in those gorgeous blue eyes. His own issue had gone by then, it was too much to keep it up when they were both coming to realise everything. His touch, trembling on his back, made him just want to comfort him forever, in their own reality. If only. "It isn't your fault entirely. Your mother is a rather determined bastard if you don't mind me saying," he let out a hollow chuckle, "You wouldn't be France if you weren't a damn good lover". He raised an eyebrow that he put it back. he hadn't expected him to come to his senses that fast, and he'd started to enjoy the sight too. What a pity.   
England let out a chuckle - a real one at that - of genuine amusement. "If I am a coward, I'm a bloody good one. You're not going to ruin the erotic ambassador unless you try using three dildos at once - that would break anyone. You may not be enough - I am rather hard to satisfy if no one bothered to tell you," he ran his fingers through the back of his messy hair, looking over his shoulder at the accusing figure with a smirk. He knew he looked good with his back arched and ass slightly out. "If you're remaining, do you want me to send you a prostitute down, or are you coming with me?"  
  
He'd expected England to shriek at him and leave. He'd expected the hurt in his eyes to intensify, for his stare to turn into broken glass. But as always, England could not be predicted. He reminded France of a fickle storm that never comes when the forecast tells it to, striking at will and blowing his poor hair across his face when he was least prepared. "You called me sweetheart." His hands closed over England's, lips twitching. This was why he loved him. He wished he could see it so much more. "Oh, _mon lapin_, you're sweeter than I. My _maman_ only wants the best for me, of course." It was only until he continued when France noticed something must have gone terribly wrong. "...You just called me a good lover? _You?_ Did I hear wrong?" He batted his eyelashes coquettishly. His heart wasn't quite in it. he damn near melted at all that flattery. From England, no less. "Well. Then I must say, you've been doing very well, yourself."   
As it would seem, all things came back to the matter of England's ass. There his eyes went, as well as the rest of his mind. Ah, it truly was the best way to to raise his spirits. That, and the fact that England was _flirting_ back at him for once. The world really was ending. "Then three dildos it is. I have more than what it takes to satisfy you, _Angleterre_." This all felt so strange, for him to punish himself for his perversion, only for it to be flung back to his face. It sent his heart racing. "I shan't force some poor lady to follow us into certain doom!" And then came the display of his dirtiest leer. "But I suppose you'll make a fine replacement."  
  
England hummed slightly - he could see the look on Frances face and hadn't quite been satisfied himself, so he was seriously debating it. After all, there may not be another mattress for some time - oh, who was he kidding? This was no longer medieval times, they could afford a bloody inn or do raid someones house. "I have told you countless times before - I am not your lapin. Your mother is a right insolent toad who does squats over cacti. God knows how bad that is compared to nettle play." He shivered at that memory. Lesson was learnt from that night with Hesse. "I'm no longer interested in topping in a relationship, so I wouldn't quite say that yet. You may ruin that perception I have of you later so don't act smug quite yet," he picked up a rat, stroking it, "Perhaps I should find someone else to confirm I'm a good lover as well," he smirked, eyes clearing giving a challenge, "What? Going to pull three out of your pocket? Even _I_ don't have that many of the same type. A variety is necessary. A rent boy will do then, I need someone actually confident to take me."  
  
"I beg your pardon! She is strong, and I cannot fault her for feeling the way she does! Though, I think she might break those cacti with the sheer force of her... legs..." he frowned. "_Zut alors_, now you have me thinking about my mother's legs. Don't you ever dare tell me about your exploits with nettle. Even _I_ have standards."   
  
"My, my, you do not top?" France was _aghast_. That fact alone went against whatever it was that England prided himself to be, but it sent a thrill up his spine. And, _merde_, now England was testing him. What was he to say? He could allow the presence of a rent boy at the expense of his pride. It was true, he would feel disgusted to make love to England if he might feel he was using him. He was putting him in quite the spot. More importantly, how on earth would they find dildos in the apocalypse? "Your confidence is charming, Arthur!" he marvelled. He would not fall for that bait. "If you should need three dicks to satisfy you, you may as well bring _two_ rent boys along. I believe all of us could testify to your skill at being a good lover, oui? " He shrugged. "And who's to know, a group of four might do well against a horde of the undead."  
  
"The time I call your mother strong is the time she managed to wield a blade through my wing. Don't speak frog, you know I don't understand half of what you say. You gave _out_ of your mothers legs or have you forgotten one of the reasons you wear condoms?"   
He paused, "mm.. that was Hesses idea. Should I tell you all the lewd things we did together? He really was one for a quick fuck every hour, so much unlike his brother who disliked even the idea of it.. he _loved_ trying out every kink he heard of from the bar," he gave the rat a kiss on the head, "I've topped every one of my partners, but due to new research and various other factors, I really can not be bothered to ram someone every few minutes. I could top, but I do not want to. Why, are you too scared to top?"   
He scoffed as he corrected him, "Group of 5, actually, we need to go help Catherine sooner rather than later. If you were listening, you idiot, you'd know what I said was that I don't want anyone who I've ever be seeing again or isn't willing to be in _stable_ relationship. Of which you are proving to be neither if you'd dare let anyone else fuck me. I'm rather fond of the more jealous types. God knows what you'd do if Spain and Prussia were here."   
  
"And," he added a childish pout, "I'm _cold_"  
  
France's eyebrows crept higher as England's comebacks mounted. It was remarkable, how quickly he was able to cut at him. An art in itself. Whatever the case, France found himself horribly entranced by this side of him — flirty and cunning and so, so _delectable_. "And that is a challenge?" He lifted his chin, glassy eyes narrowing. "I see what you are doing, _Angleterre_. You push me away and yet you wish for me to chase you. You _want_ me." The idea of it nearly caused him to faint, as did England's lips going over the rat. Dieu, he had to kill that one too."...That is a first." So England did not enjoy topping. It fit him. Too much. It was perfect, really. And, ah, it looked like he'd failed his little test! It was of no matter. "If you really knew how I felt, you'd know I will never allow this. Don't let my words fool you. You're _mine_, as I've said countless times before. But I suppose I must be yours too." He tilted his head, near-manic grin remaining. "So do not mention them. You are right, oui, I don't know what I might do." Then he burst out in laughter at England's pout. "Oh, what a coincidence!" he griped. "I think I feel very warm."  
  
"Yes, yes it is" he looked back at him, "But I'm still debating it. I don't really want to be taken in a dreary cellar with Brownie watching, but I know doing it later means Catherine most certainly will be using her silly camera; and I want it _now_. But, I should really make you wait. It is quite a predicament. Correct, I want you. But it doesn't mean I particularly care if I _don't_ have you." He put the rat down in the cage and hummed, "Je t'aime, Francis. That is what you wanted, and you did do as I asked. I suppose I'll marry you, after all it is a mere legal contact: you said _marriage_. It has nothing to do with love and anything of the silly sort. To put it frankly, all it means is that everything you own belongs to me and vise versa, although since you may be dead, I suppose _everything_ belongs to me, not counting the death tax. Even if you're not or will not be, you still have more than me and means you'll be taking half of my debt. In the end, I can not lose in this agreement."   
  
Arthur shrugged, touching the golden circlet on his head that had appeared, "Father made it. It's very beautiful and useful: it gives me more power, you see? Now I can kill you with a snap of my fingers if I didn't enjoy toying with you so much. If you are so so very warm, why don't you come and warm me up? It is unfair to not share in a marriage," he knew he was probably warmer, but in the closed distance that would bring, he could get the deranged Frenchman to shut up for at least a few minutes.   
  
His ridiculous rollercoaster of emotions wasn't even caused by the apocalypse proper, but rather England's increasingly convoluted ways of torturing his already tortured soul. Wasn't it _fitting_. How hard was it for England to decide if he loved him or not without going in circles? They seemed to get wider and stranger each time too, and now he was talking about _marriage laws_. He couldn't find it in himself to be anything more than numbly amused by the whole affair.  
But then again, whether or not he meant it, he'd said the dreaded words and now his heart was forever bound to this complete imbecile. "I don't think I'm legally dead, first of all," he pointed out, because it was quite near the only thing he could think of. "You'll have to get me a death certificate. And there is no contract. That circle above your silly head isn't a _contract_. I don't think there really is meant to be one unless our countries decided they were going to ally themselves, and we don't have a government, last I heard!" He folded his arms, huffing. "I accept the concept of a marriage, but not your terms. They are not official and you cannot convince me otherwise."   
  
"And if you are so powerful," he smirked. "I believe you can make yourself warmer with your own magic. I don't feel much like moving." It was his turn to pout, and he was very sure England would take this opportunity to just kill him now. "I am but a dead man! I shouldn't be moving, oui? There's no need for sharing when you've taken all my land, and--"he gasped dramatically. "--_my heart_."  
  
Arthur frowned, "Circle," he scoffed, "It's a bloody ancient circlet that signifies a marriage bond - it's an old pagan version of a wedding ring. oh wait, you want to kill those horrible people. So, what you are saying is that you want a housewife without marrying and with no strings attached so you can get up and leave," he crossed his arms, glaring at him, "I can make a legal death certificate as I have the qualification, if you would so like. I still have my monarchy, actually. And I'm sure if you check the news there's enough humans alive for some form of society and reporting." He sighed, "The balloon festival is in a week. I wish I could go see all those colours again..." then Arthur merely shrugged, "I can use magic," he didn't hesitate to literally engulf himself in flames, although he smirked knowing that France couldn't see the fact he wasn't getting hurt, his voice turned cold and he frowned, "No - I'm not sure yet. You still have done nothing to prove this isn't lust" "Right, I'll leave you here, shall I? And can I move your heart from your body now or can it wait until later? I can think of a good few potions to make with it," he added dryly, opening the door as a literal pile of flames and walking out.  
  
"I was under the assumption that _I_ would be the housewife, considering the state of all our household appliances as soon as you get ahold of them." He glared back. "Then make me one! Best have one done when we still have usable resources. I should like to mourn myself. I highly doubt said society would care much about us marrying, and, and— _MON DIEU!_"   
  
England was suddenly _aflame_. The wave of heat blasted at him. He shot back against the wall, and was half-contemplating throwing himself against him to put the damned mess out before realising that England was talking and not burning alive. Ah, and he realised he'd been shrieking like a banshee the whole time, what an ungodly noise. He wasn't thinking straight, not when there was fire and he was never able to think straight with fire because he had come to expect the reek of burning flesh and panic and _merde, was this about Jeanne, it was always about Jeanne—_ "Stop that!" he complained, nearly in tears from the sheer stupidity of it. "Very clever, aren't you, just turning into a column of flames like that and walking out on moi. _Connard_. Oui, leave me here and wait till later! Don't you dare burn it on accident!"   
  
He didn't bother acknowledging the lust comment. He eyed him as pettily as he could as the pile of fire absconded from the room. Was he supposed to follow him? He was not going to. France was _done_, really. He could finally enjoy his peace, in this quiet room, absolutely alone _except for the infernal squeaking of those rats_. His eye twitched. Honestly, as if the past half-an-hour could get any worse. He always did have this bad habit of stress... eating... Oh dear.   
  
The next thing he knew, the cage was emptied of its contents and he absolutely despised himself.  
  
That struck a nerve and Arthur glared, "You don't need to marry someone to make them your sex slave," he snarled back. He watched the Frenchman suffer, torn between the guilt of being the cause of his screams and the satisfaction of power. The high-pitched noise was causing his ears to hurt and he couldn't place what the hell was making him over-react like that. He should've seen it coming. He did extinguish the flames when he was out the door, turning around and locking it. He mused for a minute, wondering if he should really have left him able to move. He wasn't sure if France could break down the door and cause risk. "You there" he barked the orders at a poor woman, "Guard the door, do it in shifts, if he leaves stab him."   
  
With that, he left. He quickly mounted a chestnut mare, his other English thoroughbred, and left. He didn't brood on his thoughts, focusing on one thing only: cutting off the channel. He pulled the horse into a halt and jumped off once he reached the entrance, not even flinching at the smell of blood. He looked in, satisfied to see it filled up with piles of rocks and boulders.


	5. Chapter 5

England grinned as he saw a girl, short blonde hair as usual, sat on what seemed to be air, her dragon tail with red scales curled in amusement, claws tapping her cheeks as she watched him, "Aww, I didn't get invited to the ceremony?"  
He stuck his tongue out, "There is none. It's a marriage with no, ah, signatures or agreed on vows. So really not a legal one. Nor can we technically do anything against it, apart from disappoint dad"  
"We exploded the tunnel after cleaning to out. Come on, I'll show you the refugees. They're sickly, not sure we can take them all back to the safehouse yet, so we're camping out here"

He nodded and followed her, heading into an abandoned building. He should have noticed the noise before. Many people were there, a cauldron of stew and blankets wrapped around the weaker ones. It smelled unsanitary and of sickness, but he could already pick out three doctors. The smell was probably just stuck to clothes. "Right. Set up a safe-house down here, grab fencing and barbed wire. I want this place contained before sundown." As the Brit put forth the orders, he left to start working himself. At least there was no more fighting on his part, but Catherine's hands were bandages and bloody already. It would be unfair to make her or the injured and weak work.

England sighed. His mind was focused on work, dragging the fencing and barbed wire. He'd already sustained multiple cuts, despite wearing thick working gloves. He was focusing on it, refusing to let his mind drift and even slapping himself when he thought about Francis. He felt guilt for leaving him, but he was also angry at him for not doing anything physical in exchange for his flirting. He'd given the guy who kisses, plenty of touches, kind words, support, and it felt like he got nothing in return. He slunk around with a scowl, occasionally shouting orders, but besides from that just sulking.

He found himself disappointed when he saw that the compound - the prison practically - was completed. That meant he had to go home and face his lustful bastard of a husband. He fiddled with the circlet, now invisible to avoid questions, but he could still feel the weight. He was also weighted by the question _why?_ Francis had said he _wanted_ him, not that he _loved_ him, but he didn't want him doing chores when he was lazy, nor did he want immediately to have sex, nor did he want his non-existent money (he also didn't want his debt). He just wanted him. England scoffed. So he was a prize, merely a possession to put on display. 'Oh look I've caught the stubborn Brit'. He could just envision Frances taunting, flaunting him off to his friends. A reward for his 'hard' work. Bollocks. It was with great effort that he dragged himself into the saddle, refusing to go any quicker than a slow walk, dreading his return.

The door had shut behind England. To France's horror, it locked itself. Should he try leaving?  
That was the question. He was objectively trapped here in his own filth and good lord, he just devoured the rats like a complete barbarian. What on earth was happening to him. He did not even want to know, and the more he thought about it, the more his impromptu meal felt like it were coming back up his throat. "_Salut!_" He called. There was no reply. He scowled to himself. There was no point getting up for this, so there came the next best option. With that, he flung the cage at the door. It struck with a resounding crash. France thought he heard a little yelp from outside of it. "I know you're there! Let me out, _s'il vous plait!_"

There was nothing still. He braced himself against the wall, slowly bringing himself to his feet. His legs seemed to have locked up, so every step he took reminded him of the strange shambling of the undead. Not to mention... his hands _were_ covered in drying animal blood. They must reek if his nose wasn't already gone. He shuddered. He refused to fall like this (but he already had). France forced his hand to rise and knock on the door. Ah, and now the wood had blood seeping into it. _Putain_. He drew back sharply. It wasn't fair, that England was off doing important work as he quite literally rotted away in there. He couldn't even wash himself. How cruel! There was the option to clean himself like a cat would, but he would not. He wasn't that far gone, and England couldn't have put that much security around this room, if he even had. If there was something he hated more than being filthy, it was being _alone_. France licked his lips. There was no way he would consider this under any usual circumstance, but there he was. It would be very easy to shatter that door if he knew just how to hit it. If an entire hoard of the undead could break walls down, one undead child of Gaul could do far better on his own.

He rammed his shoulder into the door. France barely felt the pain, oh non, there was _none_. He reeled back and charged again, and this time, he heard a crack. Another and the wood grains seemed to buckle and splinter. He panted. His hair was falling over his eyes again, but if he swept it back, he would mat it with blood and convulse from the sheer horror of that situation! Eugh. He ended up lifting his leg and aiming a light kick at the door. It proceeded to collapse almost neatly. He sneered at it, leaping over the pile of wood and coming face to face with a woman. France could almost feel the edge leave the line of his body.

She was shaking like a leaf, and he would be lying if he said it didn't worry him. "Did England send you to guard me?" he said, softly. The shaking grew worse. "Ah, _non_, it is alright! Don't be scared, _madame_, it was foolish of him to ask of you... to..." France could only watch as her eyes rolled up in her head. For a moment, both of them were still. And in the next, she had fainted dead away. He took the knife from her limp hands, swallowing oddly. She couldn't be dead, only unconscious, but what if something like this had happened to England? He was out there with the undead. He could be turned or gone by now, and his last words to him would be some ridiculous insult.

He had to get to him.

France broke into a brisk walk. It wasn't nearly fast enough, and it was true, his legs _were_ afflicted with a stuttering limp. And if that one sentence he muttered just now was any indication, his voice was failing him again. All that shrieking must've worn his vocal cords down. The last thing he noticed — and the most horrifying of all — was the hunger he registered at the sight of that poor lady. He was already trying his damnedest to shake all of it all, but the thought of England only seemed to worsen everything at once. He wasn't so... distracted, when he was in the room. But it must be the people. All of them. That came down the corridor in droves and glanced at him like he were a ghost or a monster. He wanted to weep, really, what was he doing? Perhaps he should find himself a bathroom and wash his hands and head back. France was in no state to find his beloved. _Oh_, there he went again! He must be allergic to the thought of him. His Angleterre, who's eyes gleamed so bright. Who was prideful and caring all at once. Defending his people, like he should. England would be so angry he had decided to come. How frustrating it was, that everything he did only served to make him feel worse.

All at once, his stomach seemed to lurch. He wanted England. He wanted him under his arms, for him to dig into his throat and rip it out so that they would be together in their violent, twitching death. Even as England fell apart, he would love him. He didn't care, he _had_ to. He had to turn him. He had to turn someone, he had to eat something other than rats and his own blood and— and— _Non!_

He blinked and he was France again. Or at least the version of France that certainly did not wish to infect England or eat raw flesh like he had already lost his mind. He did not think him a trophy or a prize of a _meal_. It was strange then, that even the saner part of him was almost disgustingly ravenous.

And then he brushed against another person. But this time, they came to a halt. France turned to meet a pair of horrified eyes.

"Oi! What's this! Y-you're fucking infected, aren't you?" "Get away from me!" He snapped, but he did think it came out as more of a growl than he intended. He clasped a hand over his mouth. There were more. A crowd was forming, he realised, each human looking more afraid than the last.

"I thought we had _protocol_ here, you dumb fuck!" the man yelled. " I— you brought the bloody infection in! Christ, we're dead. We're fucking _dead_. All of us."

"Where is Arthur?" he rasped. "You have to bring me to him, I cannot do this. I can't! I beg of you!"

They were advancing. Why were they coming closer? He had told them not to, it was too much. The castle walls were rough beneath his palms and it was the only damn thing keeping him there. Someone had taken the knife from his hand. "Non! Non, please, get back!" The man didn't listen like he should. He was the one in front, the one glaring in a way that was almost defensive. Ah, France hadn't even noticed.

His eyes were brilliant green.

He lunged. It was surprisingly easy to pin him onto the ground. It was as if all his lost grace had decided to return for the sole purpose of loving those dearest green eyes, for him to ignore the screams and straddle his hips and run his teeth along his collarbone. France was dimly aware of the tears he was clawing into his shirt and skin, the way he was thrashing against his grip. He shoved himself at his hair and breathed him in, one final sniff before he went right for his throat. And then he stopped, for his hair was dark and not wheat-blonde and messy. And this was not England. And he was a hair's breadth from devouring a _human._ He leapt off him. There was no one left of that crowd. Of course. Of _course_. Without paying the man a second glance (he didn't dare), he ran.

England returned as he glanced at the chaos, as someone grabbed his arm sobbing. He barely recognised or listened to the shouts he was getting at, merely stroking the ladies cheek to reassure her, "Chin up, poppet, deep breaths, calm down. Repeat slowly back to me" "T-There was an infected.. in the castle! It tried it.. oh fuck.. it tried to eat someone! You promised we'd be safe" "Hush love, that one can think. He can't be killed either I'm afraid. I'll contain him, don't you worry. No ones being harmed," he gently kissed her forehead, letting her cry on him. He was getting stares, "Tell your friends they're all safe, sweetheart, do you know where he is?" he reassured her as he rocked her body, handing her over to someone else as he heard the whisper, "bathroom" "You have permission to stab him if he's not with me and in the open," he informed the guards, "I'm sorry I wasn't here," he headed to the kitchen next, giving a few orders and letting it happen. His mind was reeling in the information, mentally wounding himself for letting it happen. He'd put everyone at risk. And France.. damn him. He carefully wrapped bandages around his arm, begging France wouldn't smell the blood of a fresh wound. He grabbed the plate and a piece of cloth.

He hid the dish behind his back as he first knocked, then entered the bathroom. He was surprisingly calm, "You've caused a lot of trouble, darling," he informed him, putting everything down and sitting beside him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, "I asked you to wait until I was back, I did say I would return," he tapped his nose, "I'm not angry at you, just a tad bit disappointed. Please don't wander off unless I'm by your side." He gently stroked his hair, "Francis, sweetheart, don't jump. I'm not hurting you. I'm just going to do a test, it's for your own good.." he carefully started wrapping the blindfold around his eyes, "Say 'ah'" he suggested, piercing the first meat on the fork to feed to his lover. He had four testers; beef and human, one raw sample, one cooked. He hoped Francis wouldn't be sick and could eat meat of any sort.

France did not know how long he had locked himself up in there. The air had long gone stale. He hand the heels of his hands buried in his eyes for even longer, knees drawn up to his body. There were no more tears to be shed after having wailed for an eternity. He was tired of thinking, really, considering how quickly his thoughts seemed to turn monstrous. Then someone knocked.

He froze. His voice was definitely gone now. He could not even scream a warning before England came through. France thought he looked much like the angel he was then, gliding to his side and stringing an arm around him. The sensation of touch nearly caused him to choke. _England_. He was here. But he had to get away! France was tired, and hungry... and... he tentatively brought his hand to England's face, wide eyes shimmering with tears. Why was he acting so sweetly? He had gone and escaped and nearly killed his people. And yet England was merely disappointed, stroking his hair like he actually cared about him. He met his eyes and offered his most careful smile back. He could no longer use his words, but that was good. He very badly did not wish for this to turn into an argument. And then his eyes zeroed in on England's wound for a moment before the blindfold went over his eyes. He _did_ jump, but he did not say ah as instructed, only letting his jaw hang. In came something metallic, and then _meat!_ France pulled the piece off the fork, chewing slowly. He... no longer could tell what it was. His taste buds really were dulled. He ended up casting a sheepish half-grin back at the general direction of England.

He smiled softly back at him, "I'm here now, darling, I'm here," he'd forgotten about his anger before leaving in exchange for comforting the Frenchman. Frog-breath was probably traumatised and he was having to put his, ah.. calming lessons to use. He lightly brushed his own fingers against Francis' hand, holding it close to his cheek, offering him a gentle smile back. They could fight when the other wasn't so.. petite. Broken.

"How does that taste? Do you feel sick? I promise I'll get you a proper meal once I find out what you can eat" he asked, begged practically, having watched the cooked beef be devoured. He prepared the cooked human, shivering at the thought that is was his own. Next was raw beef, then, well, what he dreaded. His own raw flesh. He couldn't exactly have gotten anyone else to. Once he was done, he fiddled with the wound bandages nervously, waiting for a response to each food.

  
He had to try to say something. But when he did, his vocal cords refused to produce anything other than a groan. He sighed to himself, opting to provide England a thumbs up instead, shaking his head in response to whether or not he was sick. The next piece that went in tasted sharper. It was soft, and for some strange reason, he felt as if his tastebuds had come to life at its taste.  
He went rigid for a moment, mind's eye flooded with visions of _England_. He gave this one a two thumbs up for its taste, a little peeved he could not offer better critique of it.

Again, he was not sick. The little morsels of meat seemed to be sating the infected part of his brain. He felt quite a lot more like himself now, to his relief. And so long as he was no longer a danger to the humans, his panic seemed to abate. But the next was a _mistake_. He could very clearly tell that was beef, rare to the point of being raw, and just one mouthful was clearly not enough. It would seem that his body preferred its meat uncooked, which unsettled him very much. Now, how should he convey that raw food seemed to make him crave more? He shook his head as hard as he could at this. He could smell the last one as soon as it came within reach of him, and he jerked back and clamped his hands over his mouth.

"You've sobbed yourself half to death, you poor thing," he most certainly wasn't giving him a kiss after what he'd just eaten, "Francis, just.. do the last one. I can supply it to you and it'll just regrow overnight, I need you to be healthy. For me. Just do it for me." he reached up and ran the tap, "Can you stand? You can drink afterwards, then tell me." he gently tried to rub his back. He had to act strong for now, although he was terrified, "Although if it takes better, well, bloody.. it could just be better due to a carnivore. Meats weren't supposed to be cooked, but prevents diseases.. you promised you wouldn't lie. This hurts me too - watching you suffer."

He gently touched his head, already prepared for him, "I've got one more meat to try, magical creature so it won't smell - oh, don't give me that look, the one before's scents probably just stuck to the fork too," he purposefully moved the fork against the pan and went through the motion as if he was removing the last one and picking up a new, although he hadn't changed a thing. Francis couldn't see. He bit his lip, begging this would work. He was already prepared to fend off any attacks He took a deep breath, "Francis - can I.. can I call you that now? As a sign of intimacy and a Celtic marriage? It means.. more to me than you might realise." he wanted to be careful, "I need you to tell me what caused you to heat up and attack, what were you thinking?"

Why was he being so _nice?_ Oh, he knew what they said, the calm before the storm. But he wanted to badly to give in, to remain in this moment forever. It was so hard to tell sometimes, whether or not England hated him. He didn't want to hurt him. England didn't get it at all. He didn't want to crave his flesh like that. He didn't want to lose even more of himself to whatever this was. It was a constant battle, and he hated fighting. The worst possible nation this could happen to — _France_, who was already slave to his own lust and his very exquisite tastebuds.

He forced himself to stand up at England's command, shuddering at the mere mention of his name. He couldn't just use that against him. _Perfidious_ indeed. France cast him a sneer, very sure that was the exact same piece of accursed flesh. But he was being so kind, and... magical creature? It wasn't him. So long as it wasn't _him_. "Ah," he said. It was very hoarse. At least his tongue was obeying him. "_A-Ahr-zhur._" He coughed, stance softening. "You—_Yeux verts_." Then he slumped forwards and bit at the fork. He didn't even remember chewing. It went down instantly.

_Arthur had lied,_ he realised, and then France was gone. A savage growl ripped through his throat. He yanked off the blindfold and glared as hard as he could. Not at England. Not anymore. At the recently-bandaged wound. Why on earth had he stopped himself previously? All his damned problems were solved with this.

He murmured softly in gaelic in response to his shudder, gently rubbing his companions cheek. He winced at the sneer and it was obvious by the way his hand tightened and then he let go. He sighed. France could be a real pain at times and this was all that he wanted. It wasn't France without his personality, so he was more than happy to take the weight. "Eyes?" he sounded confused, "Maybe it's the colour green too.." he gently laid a kiss on the others forehead to thank him. Fuck - shouldn't have done that. France had shown no signs of actually wanting a relationship, to act tender and loving between the two of them.

He forced himself not to panic as he saw those eyes, heard the growl from the voice that'd so beautifully spoken his name. He wanted to curl up there, but he wasn't one to surrender. He also wanted to fight the guy in front of him, but he had to be kind, this wasn't Frances fault. It wasn't _him_. He needed the upper ground and grabbed Frances wrist, not wanting to be pinned, "Francis." he said firmly, "Francis, look at me. You mustn't bite, but you can have as much as you need." He had to be firm. He needed the guy to control himself and if that was by giving orders - yes, it was the best way: orders meant he didn't need to think

He turned his glare at the grip this man was giving him and went very still. There was a reason why he shouldn't be attacking, but there was nothing left of his mind other than how _he_ tasted. And that he was hungry. And if he were to devour the man, he could walk out of this room and find someone to turn.

"Okay, you can hear me, that's good," he held his wrist, "I'm going to let go. You're going to stay back and I won't hesitate to hurt you if you don't" he waited for confirmation on the order

He knew at once that he had an edge over the rest of his kind because could comprehend his words. Whatever use might that be? It was not his language. He hated this language. But he nodded, regardless.

England hummed slightly as he let go, keeping an eye on Francis as he got out a knife. He presented his other arm and slit down the inside of it two lines parallel to each other. "Will that he enough?" he dug in either side, watching the red liquid bleed over the skin, feeling the numbing pain, the burn of the blade as it dances along his skin. This was by far the easiest part, the least painful as he looked at the cuts on his arm.

He bit his lip hard as he dug in, the blade tilting to go _under_ the skin, deep into the flesh and be dragged along, slicing out the flesh and meat, letting the blood flow gorge freely along the whole length, elbow to wrist. He was letting sobs rack along his body, whimpers in his breath. If France attacked him now he wouldn't be able to fight him. He turned his arm, letting the blood-covered strip of his own meat fall into his leg. He let go of the knife. He couldn't feel his lip bleeding from when he'd dug his teeth into it. He was just waiting for the relief of endorphins to fill him. God knows how he wanted to be looked after in that moment, sitting in his own blood, colour drained from his face.

  
He did not move, only cocking his head slightly as the blade ran along his flesh. He had been told to wait. He would. No matter how much he wanted to lunge at the wound as it grew. He decided he absolutely did not like the sound of this man's whimpering. It unsettled him, and being unsettled meant he would have to think about something more than the blood that was falling. The knife clattered onto the ground. His attention was drawn towards it for a moment, before his eyes trailed back to his meal. Ah, there it was. He was allowed to reach for this one. And so he finally dove for the strip of flesh. He made sure to savour it this time, crawling all over this man's lap to lick the rest of it up. Blood was dribbling everywhere. He had to scoop the rest of it with his hands just so he could suck it off the side of his palms. And at last, he was full. He sighed, pulling himself off his meal almost lazily, meeting his very green... eyes...

_Arthur had lied._

France blinked. One. _Twice_. And then he hung his head and wept.

He could just about feel Francis on his lap. His skin was crawling. He was so close - why the hell was he thinking about that in his time of pain? He could see his beloved licking it, the red from himself on the skin of the others. He let his eyes meet blue and suddenly panicked when they filled with tears, his own vision wet. He shook his head, begging for him to stop internally, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Moving was excruciating when he'd started settling into a state of numbness. And France didn't want him. He could barely look at him, but he let himself fall into his lap, closing his eyes and letting the flicker of a smile tug at his lips. He was safe in his arms. He wanted to be held and told he was loved; he wanted his _father_. He wanted _Francis_. It felt comfortable. He wanted to rest his head and let the bittersweet pain subside. It was strange how romantic it could've been.

It took another second of panicked sobbing before he was able to quell his shaking. Now what? Now _what?_ He'd gone and— and the stench of blood was everywhere. England was bleeding out and in great pain. He could feel his heartbeat fluttering against him. Francis choked back another sob. "_Arzhur,_ st-stay still, oui?" he whispered, running a hand across his hair. Blood was staining his shirt and legs, causing the fabric to cling to his skin. France hooked an arm under England's legs as gently as he could, pushing the other behind his back. Then he exhaled and stood back up. The weight knocked him off-kilter. He shoved a leg into the wall. It was hard to stumble his way to the door, but he swung it open and broke into as fast as a run as his legs would allow. He didn't even know where he was going, but he turned a corner and heaved. "Catherine!" He screamed. "_CATHERINE!_ I— Where are you? Please! your brother is hurt!"

He smiled softly, "Arzhur..." he whispered in repeat, comforted to hear his name spoken. He wanted to reach up and tell him he was okay but his brain was screaming, thoughts murky. His arms were heavy; he couldn't move them. He couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't do anything but let himself be held. He'd been in worse situations. His wasn't the worst pain he had felt. He wasn't going to die and it wouldn't hinder him once it'd healed over a bit. He barely felt the hand, but he lifted his head slightly to push into it. He felt the hand under his legs, under his back to be held up, "N-No.." he managed to croak out hoarsely.

Francis may feel strong and it had been almost a week, but he didn't want to risk any injuries on him. He wanted to snuggle into his chest, breathe in the scent of the cologne - or was it perfume France used to get his scent? He just wanted to sleep again, although preferably in Frances arms. He opened his mouth to tell him that he could, in fact, heal himself using magic and only needed a bandage, which France could use his shirt for, but all that came out was a cry of pain. He could feel himself moving up and down from his running, the screams. He let his head loll and focused on his breathing.

He couldn't feel the pain now. It was only a rush, a high, left. An afterglow from hormones. He didn't want to open his eyes and merely moved his bandages arm to be on top of his injured one, whispering, "Slànachadh." he couldn't watch the light work, but the idea made him sick, "Francis, _stop_," he murmured in a soft tone, "jerking me around is only going to make me vomit. That was the worst blowjob I've ever received," he informed him, covering the middle of the wound with his hand. A sheen of light was over it, transparent, stopping the bleeding and marking out to the body where to rebuild. The outlines of the veins, arteries, capillaries and cells were all there. He offered a weak smile in compensation.

At the screams, a crowd had gathered. They looked terrified, several crying. One shouted, "that's our leader, our fucking leader, our country and you fucking infected him. We're fucked. Bloody 'safety' is non existent. It's all doomed." there seemed to be a lot of anger, several guards seeming unsure on whether to attack or not. Catherine had good enough hearing to hear the shouts and screams and pushed through the crowds. She looked shocked, "Arthur? Sasainn? Dè thachair, a bheil thu ceart gu leòr? Dè a dh ’fheumas tu?"  
"Cuidich mi. Tha e goirt, an urrainn dhut bannan fhaighinn?" Catherine nodded and stripped off her shirt, leaving a rather naked torso and wrapping it around the wound, it soaked little blood. She felt his temperature, "Tha thu uamhasach aig cur-seachad"  
"I know," England chuckled, lifting his arm up, "Will you help me, darling sister?"  
"Tha, Tha" she placed her hand on his arm, "France can kiss it all better afterwards" England grimaced, "Like hell he will"

France's blood froze in his veins at his cry, but he kept going, pushing past all manners of panicked Brits. He stopped as soon as the command came. Oh, he did have a point. His entire thigh was slick with blood already. With his sense of disgust back in place, the prospect of vomit did not look particularly favourable. So he set him slowly down, watching as light danced over his wound. He wished so desperately to plant a light kiss upon his forehead, but visions of all the blood he had spilled was enough to pull him away. "Ah, even I have to agree," he said, softly. He still remembered the taste of him, how _good_ it felt in the moment. It wasn't time for guilt now, so he cupped his hand around England's face, as if framing his smile. "I promise I shan't be so sloppy the next time."

A crowd was gathering behind them. The hostility was so thick he could barely breathe. He turned around, just enough to shoot the worst of them a warning glare. The greatest advantage of being shameless under usual circumstances was his skill at putting up _quite_ the front. It was useful enough on the battlefield. It was useful enough now. "He is not infected!" he told that one particular imbecile, frowning rather disapprovingly. "Do you have so little faith in your nation? I am France, darlings! I'm one of his kind. It is not your place to drive me away." France gestured at England. "...It is _his_."

He would say more to them, or at least as much as he could before he broke down in tears again, but Catherine burst through. What a saviour she was! Though, he couldn't understand a single word of their conversation. To his shock, her shirt was stripped off her. Mon Dieu. Her chest. He averted his gaze respectfully, a changed man now, but he did note she was rather... lacking. "Oh, I will! You underestimate me," He attempted a small smile, but it felt a little hollow. He did not want to put his mouth there. He was going to hurt him again

England let himself be put down but didn't move much, enjoying his face cupped. He felt blood rush to his cheeks at the position and, well, the conversation. He didn't want France to go, but it would be a sign of weakness. He sighed, "You're staying with us for now. I can't have you out in the open, it's too dangerous," he refused to comment on whether it was dangerous for others or France.

He sat up, bringing one knee up and putting the other underneath, "Thanks, Cath." he nodded at the wound. "No, I'm not quite infected. Calm down, France. And stop damn crying, you've got nothing wrong and nothing to blame. Stop it," he hated his harsh words, but he hated the tears in his eyes more, "All you've done is scream and cry, you're not a child." Catherine pulled England into a hug, trying to tell him to shut up, giving a weak smile to France. "You will not kiss me, because you think I'm positively disgusting and you most certainly do not arbour any sort of romantic feelings towards me - now gerrof me, I need to go do some work. The country won't save itself."

England sighed, "Are you alright though, France?" He wasn't bothered by nudity; she was his sibling, they'd seen worse and he harboured no romantic feelings towards her, but he smirked as he saw Frances expression. "A gentleman would've bandaged me himself"

He nodded slowly. Of course it was dangerous. He was so damned out of it that he barely registered England's blush, except to note how well it coloured his cheeks. He sniffed. "I cannot help it! You already know how much I cry." He scrubbed his eyes roughly with the heels of his palms. They ended up redder than ever. But the sight of how watery England's were was enough to force him to stop. "...Oh, alright." He scooped his hair off his face, looking at least presentable enough to shoot Catherine an understanding nod. The presence of England's smirk sent a flutter up his spine. "But I am no gentleman, you also know that. You just wish to see me without my shirt, don't you?" If Arthur were disgusting, what would that make him? "...It isn't like that," was all he managed, more of a sigh than any true rebuttal. There they were, back to their centuries-old routine. Then because he knew he could not say anything else — "_Oui, je vais bien._ Worry about yourself first. I think I... I would just like a bath. A very long one."

He moved closer to France and merely resting his head on the crook of his neck, "Not so hard or they'll water from pain," he murmured, feeling the hair move and tickle his cheek slightly. He let out a shiver and got closer to France, wanting bodily warmth, not as if he could majorly offer it. "That's true, you most certainly aren't a gentleman, unlucky for me," he sniffed slightly, "But you will be a decent husband by the time you die or I will be damned - I don't want my place to be French-ified. And no, I was not moving. You signed up for this." He pressed his nose into Frances neck skin, closing his eyes and letting his eyelashes tickle the flesh, "That can be arranged, would you mind if Catherine joined you? You deserve it, Cath - and we can't really waste water." he could put up with a river, magic would (hopefully) stop an infection. Maybe. "Correct. Take it off." He pulled at the shirts fabric, his cold hand slithering down to Frances stomach and resting there, going underneath. He blinked up at his companion ever so innocently.

He leaned into England, laughing softly. "I could certainly be a gentleman if that counts under being a _decent husband._" So he would be moving in with England. Fine enough by him, considering how he did not know what had become of his country. He was here to find help for his countrymen, and yet he would end up moving here permanently. "...I suppose I will. I'm already living with you, am I not?"

France held England's head closer to him. The eyelashes did not feel unpleasant. "That is alright! You could come along as well." He was so occupied listening to England's breathing that he nearly missed the next line. And then he jerked away, just enough to meet England's eyes. The look on his face drew another laugh. To his delight, there were no further urges to sink his teeth into England. Perhaps, he really was full. "You know, _Angleterre_, I never thought you'd be encouraging my exhibitionism one day," he mused, letting his hand fall over England's. Quite the pleasant sensation it was. His eyes fluttered at the warmth of it. France peeled his shirt off himself, feeling the cool air on his back, before letting it fall in a pile beside him.

He felt his face heat up as he flushed, a light blush on his cheeks. He liked being held, touched. He adored Frances laugh. He sighed contently, heart fluttering softly and over all feeling happy. Who knew it only took a bit of suffering? "Would you rather treat me badly?" he frowned, looking serious, "I didn't realize you had a kink like that. This isn't really.. living. It's more like being a refugee," he laughed hollowly, "A prisoner in my own bloody country."

"Mhm.. maybe.." he was a bit too busy to think properly. He winced slightly at the jerking, not wanting the protection to be stripped away so suddenly. He looked curiously at him, enjoying his laugh. He was back to normal and happy. He loved France like this; he would willingly give up anything to watch him. "It's only exhibitionism if it's your genitalia and I'm not consenting, love," he practically purred, blood rushing to his cheeks and turning them red as his eyes scanned the chest - slightly hairy, of course, but still toned. France just _had_ to have the right muscles in the right places to look utterly gorgeous. He quickly run his thumb over the back of Frances hand. Catherine let out a squeal, nose (coincidentally) bleeding. She then laughed and stole Frances shirt, pulling it on and shooing away the crowd. She didn't really want anyone staring at her breasts after all, and Francis didn't particularly _need_ it.

"I'll be the lovely wife you'll return to everyday, I suppose." France smiled. It didn't seem like that much of a bad thought. It was hardly the time to disagree. "...You will? Merci, _Arthur_, that is very sweet of you." Oh, why did his name have to be like this? His eyebrows went up at the presence of the tongue, and his smile widened. "How do you think I feel about the endless cascade of _rosbifs_ here?"  
_Like I want to eat them_, he noted, bemused. England liked it. Wonderful.

His eyes met piercing green almost immediately, the shiver going right where it wasn't meant to. He couldn't believe this. He spent his whole life dreaming of touching England in this manner, and it was happening right before him. "It is, isn't it?" he breathed. His hand was suddenly left with no stomach to touch. A pout crossed his face. "Then it isn't wrong of me to wish to see them again." Then England's tongue went around his lips. It was enough to shock the leer off them, really. He recovered a split second after, heart still pounding like he'd just been on a run. The sensation of him lingered. He couldn't stop _staring_. "You wouldn't know how beautiful you taste," he shook his head, mouth going very dry at this. "The finest of wines pale in comparison."

A fair point. What _was_ he doing? He pulled back, slightly. "I've always had romantic feelings towards you, I— I thought _you_ didn't for the longest time. And then you are coming onto me and pushing me away at the same time, and _I_ am confused. I cannot make love to you if you think I've never loved you." He sighed. He must look very serious now, which wasn't very good for his skin. He did tend to frown a lot when he worried. "I... How to I prove it? I will never throw you away. You will never be a trophy to me. You are too important, _Arthur_."  
"And," he added, an afterthought. His frown unravelled. "Is that mint still on offer? Oui, I would like one."

"You seem to have a bit too much cock to be a wife, Francis, plus you're the one fucking _me_ senseless," he sniffed, sticking his nose up like a snobbish brat, "The same that I feel about a particular frog in front of me, you twit. Yes, one of us has to be sweet to make out for the other's sour nature," no sooner did the words slip out that Arthur realized what he'd said and how well that count be turned against him.

"You can do the same actions in the privacy of a bedroom when we're not sitting in the middle of a corridor where I am freezing my ass off to comfort you," he felt comforted by the shiver - obviously he wasn't the only one effected by the whole situation. He noticed the pout, not very happy himself as the lack of touch. He'd thought the hand would follow despite his shock, not abandon him. He quickly tugging his shirt further down. "I can tell that you like it very much," he pointed out, clearly amused, "Blink for a minute before you eyes pop out of those sockets. I'm not a massive fan of wine, although I suppose it an be appreciated. Really I prefer the moscato from south Africa."

"Yes, don't pick me up and throw me out of a window," was his only chide comment to Frances statement, "You have yet to directly just come out and say 'I love you'." he unwrapped a mint and gave it to him, "Catherine likes me to have some spare when she runs out," he explained. He looked at the circle on his palm and then smirked deviously. He raised Francis' hand and put it to his lips, licking it and lapping up the mint. He then stuck his tongue out so it was clearly visible. If Francis wanted it, he'd gave to get it.

He was alert as soon as England said this, the prospect of it causing him to freeze in place as images flooded his mind... none of which were particularly appropriate. He hoped it didn't show anywhere, really, choosing to latch on to England's snobby display and ensuing insult. France snorted, slightly amused. "Now, as far as I am concerned, both foods in question are _salty_." He would not take that bait, it was too easy. "...I'm not sure what this says about either of us." "A tantalising offer, but I'm afraid I it cannot happen now," he admitted, regrettably. His lips twisted. As willing as he was, he couldn't bear to hurt England in any way. He did not wish for this to end with Arthur's entrails twitching all over the bedsheets. Perhaps he was being a coward. Perhaps England would think he didn't love him. But he did! He was nearly beside himself with the desire to ravish him. He blinked once, hard, as if to spite England.

"Oui, I shall refrain from it," he murmured, mock-studiously. At the second point, he scowled. "I was under the impression you would think I was lying. I could. I'd like to, but the time has to be right." A palm went out to catch the mint. "...How wise of her."

He was so close to popping the mint into his mouth, when his hand was seized and the candy _taken_. Oh, _Dieu_, that smirk did not spell good things for either of them. He nearly cried out at the sensation of England's mouth on his skin, his blessed tongue scooping it right out of his hand. He was being tested, wasn't he! France gritted his teeth, casting England a pained look. He couldn't _take_ this. His poor self-control was already being whittled away. He'd let it slip earlier on, and— and it was disturbingly sensual, wasn't it? He felt so alive. One more look at England's playful tongue and France shut his eyes. "...Oh, _very_ well." And then he leaned in and captured his lips softly, eyes fluttering shut as he let his body fall against Arthur's, the mint nearly forgotten. He could taste snatches of it as he explored Arthur's mouth, hands raking through his hair and back. France shuddered. Why did he let this happen? He couldn't stop now, with the taste of him on his tongue.

Arthurs hand trailed up to Francis' chin, lifting him up and leaning close so he could feel his breath, "Perhaps I like salty things... _especially_ white salty things," he whispered, "I can think of a fair few things that are salty," his eyes glinted mischievously as he enjoyed the look on Francis' face, only being able to guess what he was thinking in that moment He shrugged, drawing back, "Yes - there will be time for it later if the option to bathe with me instead of Catherine in still preferable. I'm not soaking a perfectly good top just because you don't want to look at my torso after a few solid minutes of staring," he chuckled at the over-dramatic nature of his Frenchman. "Yes, you are still to take me out on a date. Sod off, you want this too."

He pressed his body up against Frances as soon as he felt the contact, letting his hands travel up the bare torso and run along the tanned skin, feeling the little hairs. He was willing to open his mouth and allow Francis' tongue to enter - he wanted nothing more in that moment. He could feel the heat, body flushing - for Francis' sanity he couldn't let it go too far unless Francis' hands were the ones to wander lower. He arched his back as he felt the hands there, one hand slipping around the back of Francis' neck as he moved his lips in time with the other, refusing to speed it up immediately. He _wanted_ the passionate feeling of being accepted in such a way. Of course, he couldn't just give in to Francis' dominance forever - where would be the fun if he didn't fight back?

  
"How interesting, it appears that I can as well." His eyes went half-lidded at that, not quite disguising his desire. That mischievous glint was practically his undoing. France damn near lost is ability to think the second time in the span of half-an-hour. He certainly _did_ want this. Arthur wanted him to slow. And he was resisting, his pretty little _lapin_, growing very hot beneath his touch. Of course, he wouldn't be him if he didn't maintain some of his pride and pushiness. It only served to excite him further. He paused, before grinding into Arthur. He had to go lower. Oh, he had to! But should he? His mind had undone itself so far he didn't even know. One of his hands was behind his neck, he noticed. This, coupled with the sensation of Arthur running his hands down his chest caused him to moan into his mouth, his fingernails digging into Arthur's shoulders. France craved Arthur's touch, _longed_ for the day he would do just that. And he did.

That was it. He slipped beneath the shirt again, tracing the arch of Arthur's back before tugging on the waist of his pants almost insistently. Arthur had to agree first. They were in public, after all. But out of some impatience (...hesitance?), he switched tactics and went up his chest instead, very carefully dragging the shirt upwards with his other hand. His eyes were still shut and his tongue tasted mint more than ever, and he was bearing down on Arthur's lips with enough intensity to bruise.

He didn't respond, but felt hs heart race at the lustful look - he wanted it more than ever. He wanted to lead him on and the evidence of desire was enough to push him to continue his little game. His skin tingled as he felt the touches, the firm but light tracing causing him to practically melt. He arched himself more, pushing himself into France as he started shaking it. He felt the hand slip to his waist and he could imagine the firm grip holding him still and enticing him further. He had to let out a moan as he felt his chest being touched. His movements were becoming more frantic and lost as he felt the intensity behind Frances movements - he knew what he was doing more than England did. God knew how many lovers he'd had in the past. He winced at the feeling of fingernails digging in, but it was all forgotten in exchange of the grinding.

There was every strand of his pride gone, he was willing to toss it all aside for this. The skilful hands and the heat between them was enough to kill any man, or he sorely hoped so. He pulled back to breath, begging that France would let him have at least half a second before pulling him back, opening his eyes and smiling at him, breaths rapid and his mouth hanging slightly open, letting a beadlet of saliva trickle down his cheek.

He'd forgotten they were in public and he quickly pushed Francis back, hoping to get the idea cross by nodding his head in the direction of the stairwell

England was losing whatever grip on himself that he once had and it was glorious. He would be a lot more smug if he weren't in the same position. The idea of England, his _Angleterre_, coming apart like that was arousing him far more than he thought was possible. The swirl he was tracing into his back wavered as England pushed himself into him, the shock of his heat nearly driving him mad.

Arthur pulled away and Francis let him. He was staring as hard as he could, mapping out the details of Arthur's panting, the smile and the tantalising drop of saliva he so desperately wanted to lick off. He knew his pupils must be blown and his hair was in a mess, but he didn't care. He licked his lips, tasting just how much they hurt. It was a marvel he didn't draw any blood by accident, which only served to heighten his confidence in not hurting Arthur. Then he was pushed back back, and glanced at where Arthur was gesturing at. The stairwell? Ah, _non_, a bedroom. He took the hint immediately, seizing Arthur's hand and heading upstairs. There was no reason why a proper bedroom should go beneath the ground. There were a few people here and there, staring rather oddly at the presence of a half-dressed, possibly undead man and their _country_...looking like that. "Ah, this better be a bedroom," he sighed, before pushing the door open.

He grabbed Francs hand moments after and pushed his forehead against his, giving him a peck hungrily. All he knew in that moment was that he wanted - no, _needed_ \- France. He could have some fun every now and again. He didn't even have the effort to smirk at Frances dishevelled appearance. He could feel the warm substance on his cheek and very slowly licked it off.

So, he could drive the man crazy.

Just what he wanted. He kept his head down as he was dragged off - really, the man couldn't think through his haze of lust and do a more romantic gesture than jerk his hand around? Not even an arm around the waist? Although, that may not've helped with his growing problem. He did manage to come to the conclusion that since he wasn't topping size wouldn't matter, but if France dared to tease him there would be problems. He let out a low purr, "Francis" he gazed at him for a second, "You're an idiot and should let me lead." He'd dropped the sexual tone for the second sentence and freed his hand, stalking off down the corridor and opening another door. He really didn't need to be anymore enticing, but he decided to fuck with Francis some more and run his fingers through his own messy hair, looking at him over his shoulder with a bored expression before taking himself to the bed, sitting down and placing one leg over the other, back straight, and looking rather elegant in posture.

His eyes traced Arthur's tongue, savouring the peck he was given. His eyes looked so much more beautiful at this proximity, lovely little patterns swirling in brilliant green. He liked it, France realised. England was not spitting his insults or jerking away from him. He could stay like this forever. The purr made him go rigid. It was hardly fair it was dropped for the purpose of being _sensible._ France decided to agree, for once, jolted right out of his lust-fuelled reverie as soon as he realised he did not know where he was going. And that he had gone and dragged England off. To be fair, he was in a hurry. It felt surprisingly natural to him, to hold his hand and set off with him. "I suppose," was all he said, before trailing after him like a lost puppy.

His eye twitched at the comparison. As soon as he entered the room, he was met with England in his purest form — utterly untouchable. He stopped dead in his tracks. It was this Arthur that traipsed through his mind, cold and unimpressed, caught in the aftermath of a perpetual argument. The most beautiful being to have ever existed. He crossed the distance between them and smiled gently at him, brushing his messy hair from his eyes. He loved him all over again. It felt like the moment when they first met, when they were children. They'd long lost their innocence, but really... that was the _point_.

The flash of his eyes at this sudden realisation was telling enough. And so Francis kissed Arthur, lingering on his lips for a moment too long, before continuing a trail down his neck and the collar of his shirt. His skin tasted like salt. He couldn't breathe. There was only Arthur, all around him. And it was _heaven_. He didn't even realise they had fallen into the bed until they did. Francis pulled away, panting, reaching for his shirt almost hungrily. He had to get it off this time.

He met Francis gaze easily - he wasn't exactly going to back down, not when they were so close. The deep blue was stunning. And he looked so cute, lost and submissive in his gaze. He could get used to that side, he supposed, although where would be the fun without the fire-fuelled fights? He didn't move when France paused and looked over him - he didn't move as he saw the flash of lust turn into a gentle, loving gaze.

He only watched him intently, waiting for his move in this game. He put his hand up to meet his own when his hair was touched, tilting his head slightly. He then tilted his head backwards as he felt the lips on his own, unable to feel the bruising over his emotions, responding to his kiss and trying to angle it better. He felt like there was nothing between them as he put a hand in Frances hair, stretching his neck to let him have a better angle for kissing down it. He couldn't even be bothered to ruin the moment with words - he was just too lost in his rapid heart beats and the soft, pure feeling of feeling loved and cared for. He chuckled and rolled his eyes, stripping himself of his shirt slowly, revealing his chest.

He knew he was skinny enough to see the juts of ribs, but also he was an empire - he still had the outlines of muscle where it had been. Okay, maybe he'd been sat around reading a lot more than France, although he was the country of agriculture and, ah, hip thrusts... He licked his lips and closed his eyes, letting Francis take control as he let out a whiny moan. He wasn't going to hold back noises, or how else was he going to get the best experience?

The first thing that Francis noticed was Arthur's tattoo, which remained almost terrifyingly clear after all these years. His body was even more beautiful than he had imagined — lean, just enough to see his ribs (really, had he even been eating well?), and some hints of muscle. He'd expected more, but this was even better! He loved the way they moved beneath his skin, the angular planes of his chest and the way his hip bones stuck out _just so_. He didn't even know Arthur could make such sounds. There was no time to lose. He hovered lower to continue the line of kisses down, shifting to run his fingers around his nipples. He was so warm, and he was _writhing_. Francis moaned softly, nuzzling into his stomach. Then his hand slithered into the line of Arthur's pants, and suddenly he was urgent and alert again.

He blinked from surprise at Francis' pause to take in his body and quickly pulled his up for a peck again before letting him trail down, letting out a quiet gasp as he felt the fingers touch him where he was sensitive on his buds, coupled with the soft affection he was receiving was enough to make him shiver in pleasure. He held back a squeak as he felt a nose against his sensitive stomach, relaxing after a few seconds on realisation. He felt the hand creep lower and his member felt like throbbing - it was calling out so loud to the damn frog bastard. He loosened his legs from the cross-legged sitting position, not wanting to deal with the pain of that and lay himself down backwards along the bed so France could do what he was about to do easier. He'd heard the moan and it didn't help his state - how erotic and beautiful it sounded against his skin. He closed his eyes, savouring the moment

The peck caught him by surprise. He cast Arthur a very indulgent smile at that, taking a moment to pull his loose hair behind his ears. Francis could feel every one of Arthur's movements, from his shivers to the tensing of his stomach. He was being loved. The idea of _him_ giving England himself such pleasure filled him with warmth. No, heat, mostly. His movements faltered as he grew more aroused. Then Arthur granted him entrance. Francis pulled himself from his skin, panting, meeting his eyes with so much intensity he nearly growled. He dragged down his pants. Carefully, of course, he was already going far too fast, but be could hardly stop himself! It was Arthur. Lying there. Practically presenting himself to him. Then he made the final tug, and his eyes widened.

He felt warm at the smile and lifted his legs up to help him pull off his trousers and pants, letting his own arousal spring up, already fully hard. Okay, maybe he was deprived, but France was good at what he did and so fucking hot. Every way he touched him was enhancing his senses and causing sensations to run through his body - it was better than whatever he had felt before. He didn't open his eyes - he didn't want to see Frances reaction. He couldn't be bothered to deal with it, even if he could feel his eyes burning into him. He reached his hands up to Frances cheek, "Come here," he whispered, "Kiss me"

Francis never imagined he would think Arthur's cock was _cute_, but there it was. It was very adorable, really, but saying any of that out aloud was to court death. He loved it, regardless. Just as he loved the rest of Arthur. He was glad for Arthur's eagerness in helping, marvelling at just how hard he was. He ran a hand up its length, tentatively, and then he had his face in Arthur's. He'd gladly comply. France crawled up slightly such that he was properly straddling Arthur, kissing him again, all while his hand was still wrapped around his member. He was half-sure there was more stubble involved this time. The taste of Arthur filled him again, and he was almost painfully hard now.

His cheeks were burning red at this point and he let out a moan as he felt the hand along his member, having the hold back his hip thrusts. The longer it stayed there, the more he was internally begging for his arousal to be dealt with, but he knew France would make him finish much better than a mere handjob. He felt the mattress dip around him as France straddled him and he felt the lips, hungrily kissing him back, feeling his slightly swollen and reddened lips against his own. He pulled his closer, arms wrapping around his neck. He adored the feeling of stubble against him - it only added to the amount of skin stimulated. He let one of his hands drop and reach out to find, then grope Frances bulge. It wasn't unfair that one of them was free and the other not. He could taste Francis stronger than the mint now, which he decided was a good thing. His taste was sweet and easily comparable to dessert. And his smell.. it was all too good

So Arthur was getting impatient! Now, he didn't need to worry, of course. So was _he_. How his cheeks burned, how the grew so desperate that France was teasing him. He ran a hand through his hair, dropping closer to him as his hand went around his neck. He only shuddered, moving faster against him. His hair was falling over Arthur, but he swept the bulk of it back and across his hand. Then England's hand on his member sent a jolt up his spine. A gasp choked him. Suddenly, he was clawing at his own pants, his lips shoving so hard against Arthur that the mattress caved beneath their weight. France finally got them off, freeing his cock from its confines. None of this gave him any relief. He was _very_ aroused. He needed to fuck Arthur. Now. He pulled himself away from him, clenching his teeth. "...Where—" France was barely intelligible as is. He wiped the saliva from his bruised lips. "...The lube. Where?"

He let out a louder moan as he felt France closer to him, the heat between their bodies almost unbearable. He squeezed his fist into Frances hair, kissing back desperately and just as fiercely as he felt a few strands tickle his skin. He felt the results of his touching almost immediately and took his hand away, letting France deal with it so he could focus on filling the gap between them, putting a hand to his chin and pulling his lips closer, tongues swishing together and causing him to forget how to breath from the intensity of it all. He opened his eyes, panting and taking a moment to muster up the strength putting his hand to the side and opening the top draw, although he couldn't bend his arm backwards to grab and find the lube in the towel draw. In fact, he was too busy gazing at the revealed thing. He was half wondering _how_ people managed. He knew he wasn't big, but at least he fucking fit easily. Okay, maybe he was over-exaggerating, but still. He propped himself up on his elbows hesitantly, "Do you want me to..?" he asked, eyes fluttering being anxious and lustful. He didn't quite expect the man to be so obviously desperate, but he was adoring it.

Oh _Dieu_, Arthur yanking his hair! And his moaning, and every inch of his lovely body. He could not stand it, snatching again at his cock. He would have a taste if he could, but his mouth really was all sorts of occupied. In the best of ways. Arthur's touch was sending him over the edge and he nearly rutted into him there and then. France was enjoying how he was looking at his member. It was a familiar look, one he never thought he'd find on his face. He knew he was of... impressive size. He would have to be very gentle, considering how he barely knew how many times Arthur had bottomed before. He was hoping they could be at least _slightly_ more romantic the next time. Honestly, he had to be doing worse than his first — did he honestly leap from kissing to wanting to fuck England in less than... oh he didn't even know how long, only that it was not long enough. But seeing England's lustful gaze muddled his thoughts again. He froze in place, eyes going very half-lidded. "_Oui_," he breathed. "I won't hurt you," he added, not quite sure who he was reassuring.

He let out a whine as his sensitive organ was touched again. He pressed his nose up against Frances reassuringly, "It's always going to hurt the first time, sweetie" he murmured, rummaging around to find the lubricant and bringing it out, "What position would be easiest for you?" he nuzzled France, acting probably a bit too romantic for someone hard. He was still panting softly. He was usually quick-witted, but in this moment all he knew and was thinking was Francis. Francis being _aroused_ by his body, loving him, kissing him, wanting him. It was overwhelming and causing blood to rush through his body. He felt more life than ever before. France had desperately said not now and he had managed to change his mind. They were both _smitten_ for the other and it felt amazing. All his past worries were forgotten - it was just getting through stretching he had to face.

England's face was now so close he nearly went cross-eyed trying to stare. What did he mean? His _first time?_ His first time bottoming! He couldn't even mask his shock, but he found himself grinning. "Ah, but the least I could do is to make it as pleasant as possible." Out came the lubricant. He swallowed. "Lie back, _Arthur_. I wish to look into your eyes."  
Now, there came the task of stretching. He made good time lubing himself and his fingers, before sliding two in as gently as he could. Three was ambitious for now. France was biting his lip so hard it _hurt_. The whines and nuzzling only fuelled his desire. It was so hard to focus at just one spot. He kept at his light touches all throughout Arthur's chest and stomach, murmuring sweet nothings in his language almost unconsciously.

Arthur obeyed his instructions, lying back. He donned a passive look, although he loved the away France looked confused before he realized and the shock, then almost brightness in his grin as he enjoyed the fact of the moment. He ran his tongue around his swollen lips and spread himself as soon as he saw France applying the lubricant. At least he was taking time to warm it up. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he felt fingers probing his entrance and then digging in, the burning sensation kicking in of his muscles being stretched further than they had been before. He didn't want France to see any sort of pain on his face, especially since he was being so comforting. The words were like music to his ears and caused a fluttering in his stomach, a warmth to flood through his body. And right now, he could believe it was all true. He let out a soft moan from the touchings and how his name was pronounced _just so_, looking back up at France as he spread his legs further, trying to press into his body in return from the feelings, "You look like you want to plow me" he teased

Arthur was being so patient. Surely it must hurt, he was so tight! He knew his signature leer was threatening to make a reappearance, but he kept his smile intact, for fear of eternally scarring England. He was flattered that Arthur had decided to wait. No, he was very, _very_ touched. And Arthur was spreading his legs and thrusting into him, and he'd moaned. Francis decided, in that moment, that he wanted to hear him moan his name or purr it like a cat would. It made him tense up, the magnitude of it shooting right for his groin. A strange, strangled cry erupted from his throat, but he forced it to end with a gasp. Then he met Arthur's eyes. "I do," he said, lowly, not even bothering to counter the vulgar way of putting it. That was exactly what he wanted to do. "I think I must. Mm—" He pulled his fingers out, keeping the tremor from his voice. "—Right now, in fact. Are you ready, _mon cher?_"

He dropped his arms from Frances head and let out a slight chuckle, although it had a bit of pain mixed in as the fingers retracted. Fuck - he felt so _empty_ without them. He wanted something to fill the gap that had mean left, feeling his muscles contracting to try and mimic that same tightness. And Francis. Francis was making aroused noises from it all. It made his whole body throb with want. And his _eyes_. That lustful gaze practically eating him right then and there. He let out a small growl, "Do _not_ plow me. That'd fucking hurt," he looked serious for a second, "Just.. don't be rough until I'm ready. You're bigger than two fingers and you can't just start thrusting as hard as you want immediately."

Francis stopped for an instant, serious as well. Under regular circumstances, this would hardly be an issue. He was the type that preferred things to be slow and very intimate. But this was _Arthur_, and the apocalypse, and Francis had not fucked a thing in weeks. He didn't doubt in his own ability to be gentle, but whatever erratic behaviour he'd displayed in the last day or so was cause for concern. "I am fully aware of this," he reassured, glancing down at his own member. "My enthusiasm does not mean I would go ahead and be rough with you, _Angleterre_. You're my lover! Of course you must enjoy this too." He brushed his hair back. "Tell me if you are in pain, oui? Tell me to stop, and I will."

He gave a nod, relaxing his body and taking a deep breath, taking Frances hand in his own and giving it a squeeze. He then snarled slightly, "I'm bloody trusting you not to fuck this up then," he was new to this position and didn't want to try and move himself closer to Frances member as he looked up at his lover and husband. Instead, he merely presented himself a bit more. He let out a quiet gasp at the feelings, "I need you, Francis. I want you inside of me," he whispered, "To touch me, to make love to me." there was a tinge of lust and loving in his green eyes as he met the blue ones. Yes, he could trust France.

He laughed softly, squeezing Arthur's hand in turn. "Such faith you have," he whispered. Arthur was putting himself on display, and it melted his heart that he wanted this so much as well. He ran another hand down Arthur's face as he begged for him. The way he said his name-- Francis loved him so much. And this was the culmination of his dreams, right in the heart of the world's end. He needed Arthur. Now, he had to focus. He had his trust, after all. So Francis lined himself up and entered, carefully, watching Arthur's eyes. He was sure his own were widened in lust, the sensation of England around him forcing him to cry out from the pleasure.

The return of the squeeze just reminded him how sweaty his palm was because of how aroused he was and reassured him he'd been heard by Francis. Oh, how his eyes were boring into him, the intimacy of the contact just making him melt. His pupils wide, letting him see the black at the end, the shine and the driven almost wild look. The hand along his skin that he craned into. He let out a hiss as he felt the hot member make it's way past the first ring of muscle, contracting tightly before relaxing him stomach, or trying to.

He could feel the burning again, but it felt good as well as France slipped in, the lubricant making it all smoother. God - it was so fucking hot, the temperature was like a thermos rod. That coupled with the cry made his member twitch. He reached down to smear the pre-cum across the slit, trying to have some relief to the pain of the arousal. Finally, he let out a groan once the feeling of burning had surpassed and he'd gotten used to the heat, the comfortable tingling of being _full_ sating him for the few seconds he could appreciate it before he waned more. He closed his eyes and gave a slight nod to hint to France that he could satisfy himself by moving, hands coming to rest on the pillows.

Arthur was hissing. What a sound! It wasn't pain, was it? It'd better not be, given how much more excited that made him. He could hear and feel everything, even the twitch of Arthur's member. It was so warm within. He was so _tight_, he had to pause to take in how he was fitting so properly, buried all the way to the hilt. And the way he dealt with his own arousal... The initial rush faded just slightly, just enough for Francis to see the nod and return one of his own. Then clenched his teeth and began to thrust. Gently at first, of course, before he found a rhythm. Oh, _merde_. Every movement was a new wave of pleasure. The tightness felt so good to him that he had to keep from going faster, focusing instead on striking Arthur's prostate as best as he could. He would not go sloppy, no matter how much of his presence of mind was gone.

He saw the nod and let out a soft whine, letting Francis take him to bliss as he wrapped his legs around his waist, widening his eyes at the initial shock and then relaxing them closed again, tossing his head back and curling his toes, hands grappling at the blanket and he felt the immeasurable pain and pleasure. His mouth was slight ajar and h was panting, gently at first, because it became more erratic and he let his tongue fall around his lips before biting it. Francis was moving now, it'd taken a moment to get over the breaking of skin from the movements before he started getting timed thrusts in and out, moving his hips to meet such movements. And Francis. He was letting out such beautiful noises, akin to his own loud moaning. And he was doing so well! Every few thrusts he would let out a slight whine from the intensity of _those_ nerves being brushed, the sensation of being closer to heaven. It could last forever and he couldn't care. He was letting out breathless groans and everything was pooling towards his groin. He wanted Francis all over him, delivering pleasure to all of his body and more, and he was doing just that. He let out a whine, "Fuck.. Francis! Francis!" he moaned, all the could think about - just _him_. All around him. His body was shuddering from the reality of the moment. Everything was so intense. He wanted to touch himself, get some relief from the striking of his prostate. He reached his fingers down, trying to stroke himself, fingers twitching

He felt Arthur's legs go around his waist, and he made sure to lean forwards so that they were steady, at least. His hands reached out to pin him right there. He could bet that at least one of them would be cramping after. Francis was half-sure it would be him and his stiff limbs. But all of him was committed to keeping his own rhythm, losing himself to Arthur and his desperate moaning. Francis' eyes went shut. His name, being screamed like that, Arthur's arousal twisting his voice. He went faster, his strokes still gentle. He had to. Every thrust was drawing more of his beautiful cries out. England was _his_, he realised. From the way he was bent around him, the way his eyes shone. He wanted to spend the rest of his life pleasing him. There would be no others. There was no need. Just Arthur, sprawled out like this, screaming his name. "_—Je t'aime!_" It came out of nowhere. This was the worst time, really. He was gritting his teeth and on the edge of release and there was a reason why he liked to tie his hair back when doing this. But he gasped again and his conviction was renewed. "_Je t'aime aussi, A—Arthur._" Francis had full view of what England was doing. He understood. Balance was key, especially in this position. With on arm still hooked around his leg, he ran his other over Arthur's, aiding him at his task. He brushed his knuckles over his member, part of his attention on driving himself deeper into him at the same time.

He whined as he was pinned down, bucking his hip upwards. He realised how much he was acting like a virgin from needing this so bad. It'd been centuries. This was perfect, his desire overwhelming with his need. He let his hand fall limply with a sharp gasp as he felt Frances hand there, letting it replace it as he gave him the relief he needed. The mixture of it all had made his mind fuzzy. He could feel sweat on his face and brow as he let out his breathless moans. Those words. Those stunning words that he had wanted to hear felt like an ignited fire of passion in his heart. Everything was coming together in that moment. Really, he would adore to hear those words repeated sometime afterwards because he could not quite compute them in the situation. His name made his stomach twist. The knot building up was only sent to it's full peak when he felt the hot white substance release with a thrust, the soft but searing feeling of the sticky liquid filling him, sending him over the edge. 

Francis nearly passed out at the loss of Arthur's hand. He wasn't going to last long at all at this rate, the cacophony of Arthur's breathing and the moans and the slamming of his own heart coming to a head. Perhaps he could hold out for longer, for him to bring Arthur to climax first, but the more he considered this, the more he felt like his mind were getting ripped from his own body. Non, his body was telling him to keep going, even as the rest of him fell apart. He was trembling, Arthur's name spilling from his lips faster and stranger until his voice was more breathless grunting than sound. The heat building within him was burning him alive. He slowed, forcing all of himself into one final thrust. He didn't even have it in him to give a warning before he threw his head back and saw _stars_. The world went white. He lurched forward, a moment of bliss hitting him as Arthur's climax followed. 

  
Timing was nothing to him; everything seemed to be happening in the same second. His impending release was too close. He let out a cry of ecstasy as he was forced over the edge - he had no idea _how_ to hold back his pleasure in the moments, the mix of the two burnings. His cry consisted of a strained call of Francis' name, a desperate attempt to warn him and convey his feelings through the senseless mess his mind had become.

France caught himself too late, trapped too deeply in the force of Arthur's cry. He had a second for his eyes to widen, and for a rush of white to hit him in the face. He froze. Ah, it was on his neck and chest too. It was warm, he decided, licking a drop of it off. And it was going to be so _very_ hard to get the remnants off his beard and copious amounts of chest hair, not that it mattered much. He had England's cum on his face! What an achievement, his past self would be so proud of him. Except for the fact that he'd finished _before_ England, perhaps. His poor dignity.

England was too exhausted to move from his place. He just lay there, sweating and panting, fully satisfied, bathing in the afterglow. The smell and feeling of France, the pure bliss of being full and completely pleasured. He hadn't realised how much he needed this; how frustrated he had been.

After the shock of cum being in his hair, all of Francis' strength left him at once. He pulled out as soon as he could, rolling off him and collapsing on the bed. Well, he had failed, partly because his arm and both his legs were still lying over Arthur's. There wasn't a single thing in his mind other than how Arthur was lying beside him, and the sheer bliss of having just made love. A smile crept its way to his face. He could quite honestly die here. He was so content.


End file.
